


To Hell and Back

by wrenowitch



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Background Relationships, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Keith and Shiro are Adoptive Siblings, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Pining Keith (Voltron), Suicidal Thoughts, also keith angst, characters introduced later, fight me on this, its gay and frustrating dont miss out on this WILD RIDE, kangst, keith and pidge are FRIENDS, keith is bad at feelings, lances last name is not mcclain its alvarez, langst but not in the way you think itll be, nsfw in chapter 9, platonic hunk and lance, sniper!lance, torture in chapter 12, voltron comes in later, well klangst really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 128,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10778139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenowitch/pseuds/wrenowitch
Summary: Keith and Pidge find themselves alone in California amidst an apocalypse with no way of reaching their endgame: Canada. When old friends appear, it's up to Keith to make sure he gets Pidge to safety, even if it means trusting Lance (and the much more reputable, sensible Hunk) to sanctuary. To safety.Keith just has to try really, really hard not to fall in love on the way.-alternatively, the way too long, kinda dumb zombie au





	1. new friends

“Pidge,” Keith mumbles hoarsely, mouth dry as his eyes dart around the barren motel. He doesn’t see her anywhere near him, and he’s already having an especially gross morning. He feels grimy, sweaty, and the beds smell like a rotting corpse and mothballs are doing nothing to waver the horrible scent in the air. Nonetheless, he crawls out of the twisted sheets from beneath him and fumbles around the room looking for his friend. Last he remembered, he offered to take the final watch and watched Pidge drift off against his hip, only to follow shortly after despite his attempts to stay awake. Now he was by himself, and can feel the anxiety creeping up his belly; as capable that Pidge was, not even she could fight off the amount of lurkers milling around the motel. 

“C’mon, Pidge,” he grumbles, hand resting on his machete. The bathroom is just as barren, and there’s lump in his throat forming. Keith can’t lose Pidge– Keith ‘n’ Katie, friends for life, the one who pulled him out of his shock when he watched his dad get torn apart by his zombified neighbors, the one who he taught to use a dagger, the kid who didn’t bat an eyelash when they escaped the overrun quarantine zone but cried in his arms the same night about her missing family. She was nothing but strength and the pillar in his life, and god be damned if he let anything happen to her. 

He lets out a sigh of relief when he opens the door and sees Pidge at the door, eyes trained on the stilled lurkers. They’re all lucky the things aren’t nearly as active nor perceptive at night, otherwise they’d have a hell of a time trying to find a place to rest in. The sun’s beginning to rise, and they know they have to start moving out; they just managed to siphon enough gas (he’s certain that the taste of gasoline will never leave his mouth, but at least he can mask it with the literal _glove-box_ of mints they found in their truck) and should be able to drive to the next town before the car runs out of juice. Keith’s riding a lot on the car to get them to Montana– California isn’t safe with the blazing heat, and he’s heard good things about the cold slowing lurkers down. He wants to take Pidge to Canada; live out their days there until someone makes a cure, or they die out anyways. They’ll live like Tarzan and join the penguins in their endeavours of life, or something. Keith wouldn’t mind being a penguin, but he thinks he’ll pass on the whole regurgitation deal. Spitting up chewed up, raw fish just isn’t something he wants to do. 

Pidge huffs and ties up her hair into a ponytail. It’s only been two months since Pidge cut her hair pre-outbreak, and her hair already brushes her shoulders. Keith is sort of amazed, and really wants to cut it for her, but Pidge doesn’t trust him with scissors when he has a mullet. He’d be offended, but she’s right. Keith feels the effects of the sweltering heat and pulls his mullet into a stubby ponytail, jacket wrapped tight around his waist. He helps Pidge readjust her weapons over the sweater now wrapped around her waist and he gives her a small smile, glad she’s safe. The two of them observe their situation, trying their best to fight off a heat daze. They give each other a quiet nod and make a move towards the truck. They move swiftly, barely a creak of sound and manage to make it to the car before any real damage can be done to them. Keith unlocks the doors and they flinch as it creates a sound way too loud for anything not to notice. And sure enough, the lurkers begin to shamble towards the pair.  
“Go, go, _go,”_ Pidge yelps, yanking open her door and rolling up her window as fast as she can while Keith starts the car. “Shoulda rolled up this damn window before we got out… who still uses these cranks?!” 

He lets out a laugh that’s only slightly panicking as a lurker wobbles towards him, jowl leaking blood and saliva down its chin. The thing’s eyes are popping out of it’s skull, red and bloodshot and his teeth look like they’ve been filed down with a chainsaw. Keith holds back the urge to vomit as he starts the car, staring down the lurker as comes nearer, knee dragging behind itself. 

Once, twice. He turns the car over three times before it sputters to life, and they book it out of there, tank less than a quarter full. It’s enough to get out of Moreno Valley, and hopefully enough to Pasadena– he’s not complaining if they reach Riverside, though. The idea of big cities makes the teen sick to his stomach, but he knows it’s their best bet to procure supplies. They’re both hungry; Pidge has been treating their mints like they’re the finest cut of salmon, even though they both know they’re Lifesavers mints. He lets her have her fun as she places a few mints in her lap, setting two of them gently on the plastic wrappers covering the floor. He watches her for a few moments, curious as to what she’s doing but refocusing on the road. Even if the highway isn’t busy by any means, he can watch for infected, hitchhikers, or worse, bandits. 

Keith has always liked the highway. It’s constantly moving fast, and he enjoyed the thrill of the huge vans and trucks rolling past his tiny car before the outbreak. Something about driving got his blood flowing, heart pumping full of adrenaline as he rushed down the highway at speeds he couldn’t even fathom travelling. Thinking back on it now, the raven-haired teen isn’t sure why he never got into drag racing. He’d probably have been good at it.

“Look, Keith,” he hears Pidge say, smirk apparent in their tone. He looks over and sees the mints arranged so they look like cheesy wedding ring displays, intertwined with a bite taken out of the one on the left. He lets out a snort, head tipping forward to let out a few wheezy giggles before separating the mints and popping the unbitten mint into his mouth.

“Fancy. Betcha Gordon Ramsey would be proud of that.”

“Please, this is some _”Cutthroat Kitchen”_ level shit. We’re in an apocalyptic world and I’m making a gourmet meal out of mints. I deserve that 25 grand.”

“What, “Chopped” isn’t good enough for you? No Ted Allen?”

“No Ted Allen.”

Keith scoffs but can’t stop the toothy grin making its way across his face. They haven’t had an easy moment in a while, faces etched with constant frowns and furrowed brows. Their lives weren’t easy by any means, so times like this made Keith feel safe, more grounded, like he wasn’t stuck in an apocalypse and surrounded by plausible death at any moment.  
“Y’know, I had a friend before..y’know. He’d be really offended to hear you say you liked “Chopped” better than “Cutthroat Kitchen.””

Keith raises an eyebrow, unsure of where the thought came from. The both of them never spoke about their past relationships, platonic or otherwise, so it was a pleasant surprise. He felt a strike of pride in himself for them growing so close.

“Offended?”

“Yeah,” Pidge said fondly, tucking her knees into her chest. “He watched Food Network religiously. Like it was the best thing to happen to television since– ehh, what was that soap opera he loved… _Marimar._ Anyways, he– uh, Lance was his name, was really protective of the host, y’know, Alton Brown? Said the guy reminded him of his uncle, and he was just really passionate about it. His friend Hunk was always “Chopped” kinda guy, and they clashed a lot on that. But it’s funny, I’ve never seen him care about people as much as he cared about his family and...and us, I guess. He had a lot of friends but he didn’t make time for anyone but us. I don’t know, he was just, like, a douche sometimes. A total asshole, but he loved us and his family more than anything else in the world, even himself.”

“Sounds like a great guy,” Keith says, unable to picture someone like that. All he ever had was Shiro, and like the Holt family, he had gone missing during the outbreak. Keith pushes down the feelings swirling in his stomach, trying to put his attention to the road. “I bet Shiro would’ve liked him.”

Pidge leans against the car door, rolling the window down lazily. A smile graces her lips and Keith feels relief. He wasn’t going to let Shiro and the Holt family down; he’d keep Pidge safe if his life depended on it.

–

Pidge has long since fallen asleep as Keith continues down the road. They’re coming up to Pomona and Keith croons to the engine, praising it for making it so long. But he knows he’s jinxed himself when the car starts letting out this harrowing noise and soon enough she’s rolled to a stop. The teen whines, desperately trying to start the engine to no avail. She’s gone for good, and Keith feels a tug at his heart.

“You were a great truck, Red,” he sighs, taking out his backpack and shovelling mints inside the smallest pocket. “Too bad you were taken too soon.”

He feels horrible when he rouses Pidge from her nap, gently shaking her shoulder as she blinks her eyes awake and lets out a hybrid of a yawn and a screech. Keith is a little bewildered but takes out his weapon, waiting until she’s ready to go and heading towards Pomona. Pidge is reading the map with a disgruntled look, as if she’s offended there’s so much space between California and Alberta, Canada. She sighs and puts the map away, following Keith on the long trek towards the city.

They reach the city at a relatively decent time, as the sun was shining bright by the time they’d been forced to stop. He’d say it’s about two before noon, judging the position of the sun, and he finds himself fairly grateful for Shiro’s incessant “wild-life lessons.” They have quite a few hours of daylight to burn, so they can properly search for supplies.

They continue forward, Keith’s neck dripping with sweat as they stumble through the city. It’s barren, not much to have seen so he supposes it was apart of the evacuation zones all headed to Los Angeles. But the heat is even more exposed here, not a lick of shade to save them from the blistering sun. He can only imagine how Pidge feels, considering she sweats in 70 degree weather. 

He glances over to his friend to see she’s tied her shirt up at this point, obviously panting and Keith finds himself mumbling, “me, too.” Pidge huffs, and Keith moves to tie up his shirt, too.

“Look,” he says, trying so hard not to laugh at his own joke. “I’m you.”

Pidge looks at him for one, two seconds before shoving him into a light pole and smacking her hand over her mouth to stop the snort from escaping her. Keith’s just about to start a fight here when he sees two, three, no– _four_ lurkers wandering in their direction. 

“Shit,” he hisses, readying his machete and alarming Pidge as she takes out the dagger from her belt and preparing to fight, too. What neither of them plan on is the biter behind Keith snapping at his neck, causing him to fall on his ass and be forced to fend it off. Panic rises like bile in his throat and he closes his mouth tight, as the lurker drooling on him leans closer and closer. Pidge is throwing the thing off her friend and stabbing it in the skull, but there’s almost nothing they can do to fight off the small crowd heading their way. Everything’s moving so fast and Keith shouts, “Run!” to Pidge, and then–

He watches as an arrow whizzes just past him and lodges itself into the decaying corpses before him, followed by the telltale sound of a sniper rifle and the ringing noise of bullets now stuck in the brains of the undead. Keith is breathing heavily, Pidge looking up in absolute shock as the owner of said weapons begins to head their way, rifle trained carefully on them. He’s tall, skin rich and tan but it’s not because of the sun. A bandanna covers his face and reveals only the beautifully blue eyes staring back at his own. Keith moves to grab the pistol out of his belt when he hears the quivering in Pidge’s voice.

“Lance?”

The bandanna-clad stranger pulls his mask out of his face, revealing the now very much _handsome_ teen before him. He’s no more than 19 and no less than 17, with short locks of wavy hair on his head and broad, muscular shoulders. It came to no surprise, seeing how effortlessly he swung the rifle behind his back.

His voice is equally as beautiful, Keith notes, as the stranger grins and lunges towards Pidge, wrapping his arms around her as if she was the last bottle of water on this earth.

“Holy– holy shit, Pidge! You– You’re, oh my god!” he– Lance, cries and grabs her face in his palms. He takes a minute to compose himself, before standing and reaching a hand to Keith.

“Need some help?”

Keith makes a weird wheezing noise but takes the hand anyways, pushing himself off his feet. Keith knows that Lance is nice and all from Pidge’s story, but man, he didn’t know he was hot!

Keith sort of blocks out everything they’re saying for a few minutes as they walk to wherever Lance was holed up. He’s just staring at that beautiful back, rippling with muscle and that wonderful _ass–_ Keith absently wonders if he was a swimmer. 

Wow, Keith felt really hot under the collar for this guy. 

– 

He takes back everything he had thought of in the past twenty minutes. Lance has been going on nonstop for the past fifteen about his adventures and the guy just won’t **shut up.** Pidge doesn’t seem affected in the slightest, listening as if this was a completely normal thing. Lance just kept going and going, long legs taking stride with no hinderance to his never-ending stamina. He’d be impressed, if he wasn’t trying to keep up desperately. Keith didn’t have that giant leg privilege, because he had very normal sized legs, thank you very much, not the oak trees that Lance had the audacity to call legs– 

He’s so busy festering in his own puddle of anger than he doesn’t notice that Lance has stopped, bumping into his shoulder. Keith jumps back, looking around bewildered and meeting the eyes of an amused Pidge. The other teen beside her didn’t seem to take any notice, instead letting out a low whistle. They watch curiously and Lance grins at practically nothing, jerking his head towards a building and making his way inside.

They all follow up the flights of stairs and reach the second floor, immediately heading for the corner office of the building. It’s a little lived in, maps covering a bulletin board with scribbled red notes everywhere: Overrun, Bandits, Do Not Enter, Clear, the notes read. Keith finds himself interested in the blotches of ink marked heavily over Cuba, reading “GONE” in big, ominous lettering. He’s not sure what it means but pries himself away when Lance catches him staring at the maps.

“It’s so we can keep track of areas to move in,” he mumbles, taking a lingering look at the island before snapping his gaze back to the door. He knocks a few times and the door creaks open.

Inside sits a large, 75% muscle 25% big ‘n’ bulky guy, heavy assault gun resting beside him as he works over a pair of pistols, cleaning them through with what looks suspiciously like a Shamwow™. He’s got a big smile on his face as Lance waddles in, and that smile immediately turns into sobs when he sees Pidge. Keith feels awkward, waving to the guy at the desk as he wraps Pidge in this giant, bear hug and that awkwardness goes from jealousy. He wants giant hugs, too.

A few more moments pass before they all are satisfied with their reunion, all pulling chairs up around the desk. A whine leaves Lance’s lips when he realizes he’s missing an arrow, dumbly forgetting it outside. 

“I’ll get it on the way out,” he grumbles, propping up his chin with his hand, leaning forward on the table. Hunk laughs and turns to the other pair, Keith looking like he’d been brooding the entire time and found no real substance to the situation; which wasn’t that far off from reality.

“So,” Hunk grins, “where are you guys headed?”

Keith has half a mind to keep silent before Pidge immediately chirps in reply, “Pasadena, for now. We need supplies, and I think Pasadena–“

“Nope, nope, nope. Pasadena’s overrun. Bandits taken over most of the south.”

“Then what about northern Califor–” Keith is shortly interrupted by Lance, again.

“California’s a dead state, dude. We’ve mapped as much as we can from Varadero Beach, Cuba to Los Angeles, and nearly all of the coast is gone. Best bet is heading out of here and into Nevada...that’s what me and good ol’ Hunk are doin’. Gonna let the van sit for a while before we keep on going.”

“Fuck..” Keith mumbles, wringing his hands through his hair. “What are we supposed to do?”

“You can always tag along,” Lance winks, leaning back in his chair. “There’s enough room, we’ll just need more stops.”

“Wait, wait–“ Pidge says, shaking her head and looking at them in awe. “You have a van, like a real working, not about to die van?”

“Yup. You’d be surprised how well she’s done. Hunk hot-wired her the moment we got outta the quarantine zone. Brand new, and she’s a beauty. I love her. Her name’s Blue.”

Pidge looks at Keith in excitement, as if she’s a kid in a candy shop. “Keith! We– we can finally have a group, and not be on our own! And they’ve got a working car, and I can learn from Hunk how to–“

“Pidge, this isn’t a good idea,” Keith swallows down the guilt in his chest as he sees Pidge’s face fall. “I...We have no idea who they are–“

“My friends,” Pidge shoots back, jaw clenched. “What, you don’t trust them?”

“No, I don’t. Kinda convenient they show up when we need them, right? Pidge, don’t you think that’s a _little_ weird?”

“Dude, chill. How are we not supposed to notice two people just waltzing into this empty city? Of course we were watching, but only around when you came in. Sheesh, _eres un punto, compadre.”_

Hunk sighs. “You can’t blame him. He’s just meeting these two random guys...Listen, we’re leaving tomorrow morning. How about you two think about it and talk it out? We’ll knock at your door when it’s time to go and you can tell us then. Until then, let’s just...eat some dinner and then sleep, okay?”

Hunk’s level headedness eases the tension, and the group wolf down their bowls of beans and settle in for the night. Keith is very aware of Lance boring a hole into his head as they try to sleep, the question lingering over them both: Could he be trusted?

As Keith began to drift off, he decides he wants best for Katie. And if that means they travel cross-country with the eccentric Lance and calm Hunk, so be it.

He hopes he doesn’t regret the decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOO edit time i gues i forgot to add notes at the end here...oops...im so sorry!!! anyways yes this is a zombie fic and yes its completely self indulgent!!! i hope its enjoyable!!!
> 
> i totally forgot to mention translations sO
> 
> eres un punto compadre = you're a weirdo, dude  
> *punto is cuban slang for someone whos like, shady/shifty or just weird (ie keith was being weird about lance and hunk's sudden appearance)


	2. things you do to look good #282: incite a riot

The morning of their departure is a busy one. Hunk is all but panicking as he gathers Lance and his’ gear. He’s carefully plucking out the thumbtacks holding up their maps and is only a _little_ aggravated when Lance drops said maps. Keith stands there awkwardly as they compact everything into Hunk’s backpack, and soon they’re ready to set off. He watches in horror as Lance simply grabs his head and pops his neck, a sickening _crck_ resonating. He keeps going, bending his fingers in unnatural ways and twisting his back nearly to the point of breaking it. Keith looks away when he starts bend backwards and focuses on Pidge. She looks tired, letting out a ferocious yowl of a yawn and chewing languidly on a granola bar. Keith feels the corner of his lip twitch.

A hand pats his shoulder and he looks back to see Hunk, who’s got the kindest smile on his face and Keith melts. “Ready to head out?”

“Yeah,” Keith replies, adjusting his backpack and trailing beside Pidge as Lance takes the lead. Hunk takes the rear, watching diligently in case something tried to attack them from behind. They make their way out of the building, luckily avoiding any of the stilled biters that wandered in overnight. 

Lance holds up two fingers as they reach the entrance, peering through the scope of his rifle as he creaks open the door. Nothing on the other side, but Keith watches as the Cuban tenses and nods warily. “It’s clear, but be quiet and move fast.”

Pidge nods and they rush to the car, feet light and eyes darting everywhere. Getting there is no easy task, Keith realizes, when Hunk mutters something about a formation and he feels their circle getting smaller. The four of them are back to back, skirting around the groups of biters beginning to wake. 

Keith curses under his breath as a biter begins to crawl towards them, snapping its teeth dangerously close to his ankle. He reels back, fumbling for his knife when he feels Lance reach an arm in front of his chest. 

“It’s not worth it. Move back,” he mumbles, pushing the group away from the biters on the ground and towards their car. Lance is well aware there is an obscene amount of legless biters lurking around, but he’s not willing to exert unnecessary energy, not until they encounter real dangers. 

The group keeps moving and they eventually do reach the car, but Keith notes that Pidge was forced to break formation to take care of a biter getting too close. Lance looked increasingly anxious at this, but in the end, it prevented any bites or scratches so he brushed it off. Lance clamors into the back seat, rifle trained out the open window as Hunk climbs into the driver's seat. Keith follows Lance in the back and Pidge joins Hunk, quietly distracting the crawling biters by throwing mints at them. 

Keith joins Lance, aiming his pistol out the back window and watches the biters carefully. They’re starting to wake up now, and he feels anxious. The car doesn’t want to start and the z’s are _definitely_ hearing the engine. Lance starts kicking at the back of Hunk’s seat, warning him of the biters growling at them. They start lumbering towards the car, moaning out in hunger and the car still won’t start. 

Lance puts down his rifle, much to Keith’s despair, and starts rummaging through the back of the car, creating an unnecessary amount of noise as he desperately looks for something. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Keith hisses, well aware of the biter who’s way too close for comfort that seems very attracted by all the ruckus Lance is making. Said biter gets even more excited when Lance lets out a whoop, and Keith is ready to start yelling at him when he notices the crowbar in his hands. “What is that supposed to do?”

“Watch and learn, mullet,” he says with a smirk, turning the crowbar on its end and slamming it into the lurker’s eye. It crumples to the floor, the crowbar proving effective, and Lance lets out the most brilliant, aggravating grin. 

Keith rolls his eyes, holstering his pistol and opting for his machete instead. They’re there for another four minutes, as Keith and Lance hack through waking biters. The car starts, finally, the moment Hunk kicks the damn thing and it rumbles to life. They’re out of Pomona fast and towards Nevada, speeding down the freeway towards their first stop: Primm, Nevada.  


–

Keith was in no possible way prepared for a three hour drive.

He, dumbly enough, assumes that California is a lot smaller than he realized and it’ll be a quick drive to the city. The thing is, when an hour has passed and they make their switches (Hunk and Pidge nap in the back while Lance and Keith sit in the rather uncomfortable seats up front) Keith realizes he has no idea where they are. 

Lance glances over at Keith tearing a hole into the map and lets out a snort, turning down the volume of Adele’s 19. “We passed Victorville, if you’re wondering. Coming up to Barstow and I think we’re gonna make a stop. You drive?”

“Nevada’s...it’s like, 200 miles away.”

“About 150, actually.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Keith snarls, and Lance rolls his eyes at this. They keep heading down the freeway, and only fifteen minutes have passed when Lance speaks up again.

“So, Mullet,” Keith frowns, “tell me about yourself.”

“Why should I?”

“Aww, c’mon! I bet Pidge never stopped talking about me. I can start if you want,” he says, moving to take off his jacket and steering with his knee.

“Okay first off, I’ve only ever once heard about you,” a lie, “secondly, you already drive bad enough and now you’re doing it with your fuckin’ knee? You’ll kill us all,” another lie, “and finally, I know enough about you cause you talk too much.”

“Sheesh, dude, chill. Just tryin’ to make some conversation. Pop open the glovebox, will you?” Lance mutters, moving a hand to the wheel while the other one motions towards the handle in front of Keith. Keith opens it and Lance thumbs through the copious amount of CDs before he takes one. “Aha!”

“Aha what?”

“This, Mullet-boy,” he waves the gray CD, “is Lance’s sweet summer tracks of 2016.”

Keith pulls a face and watches quietly as Lance slides in the CD, reading the back of the CD’s case that’s riddled with illegible handwriting. His tongue is sticking out of the corner of his mouth and Keith has the strange urge to call him cute before he hears a very upbeat tune from the speakers. He’s annoyed by Lance turning up the speaker volume, but he sees Lance out of the corner of his view swaying his head along to the beat and decides not to. Keith’s trying really hard to see if he knows the song when Lance grabs the back of his neck, pulling him close.

 _”First you want my money, and you think I’m sexy,”_ Lance sings, much louder than necessary, _”Come on, sugar, let me know!”_

Keith yelps and sputters out a response something along the lines of “fuck you” and curls into himself on the seat. Lance is still singing along and Keith tries to block him out, but he can’t help but notice the guy’s a decent singer. He lulls off to sleep when Lance changes the song to what Keith recognizes as _Careless Whisper_ , and he’s singing under his breath, and that does it for him.  


–

He wakes up when they’re pulling into Barstow, and he realizes Lance had been driving for the past hour and a half, and feels a little guilty for napping. Hunk stretches awake behind them, jostling Pidge from her sleep when Lance starts turning into the street.

“That’s weird,” Lance notes, leaning his head out the window as he stops just outside of the city. He turns the car and parks it across the street of the city’s entrance, worrying over his lip as he observes Barstow. 

“What’s up?” Pidge asks, glancing out the window. 

“Last I heard, Barstow was apart of quarantine, but...shit, man, shouldn’t there be _something?_ It’s completely empty, it barely looks touched. There’s still– like, fences from the zone up. Not even been taken down…” he trails off, glancing around the area carefully before opening his car door and reloading his rifle.

“There’s still even those signs up,” Hunk mutters, drawing Keith’s attention to the large, red signs reading “QUARANTINE”. An uneasy feeling settles over him like a blanket as he makes his way out of the car, pulling Pidge beside him as they move towards the city.  


–

It’s eerily quiet as they move in, and no time is wasted to start gathering supplies.

“This would go by faster if we split up,” Keith mumbles as they warily enter a tiny grocery store, having tried siphoning out any fuel to no avail.

“Are you crazy?” Lance hisses, crouching down and shuffling through the pill bottles strewn across the floor. “You don’t split up ever during an apocalypse. Rule numero uno, man. Safety in numbers.”

“What are we being safe against? There’s nothing here!”

“I don’t know, Keith,” Hunk says, rummaging through the aisles to try and find anything salvageable. “This place doesn’t give off the best vibes.”

He’s ready to spit some unnecessarily mean retort back when Pidge drags him away to look through the other aisles, sensing the tension in the situation. He huffs, allowing himself to calm down before joining Pidge in her search for supplies.

“Keith,” Pidge speaks up, kicking through empty bottles and shattered glass, “I know you don’t trust them, but...I grew up with Lance. He’d never do anything to hurt me, you know that–“

“I know that, I just– there’s nothing sketchy about this place. It’s like every other abandoned zone, just because the fences are up doesn’t mean it’s like, bandits or some shit. He’s paranoid.”

“Keith, Lance lost his family during quarantine just like we did. He’s paranoid of losing his friends again, not some imminent danger.”

Keith finds any words slipping off his tongue and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. He feels guilty, but it wasn’t his fault Lance was so abrasive and bossy about his opinions.

“Besides,” Pidge chuckles, stuffing a few unopened protein bars in her pocket, “he’s got a good sense of danger...most of the time.”

“Hm,” Keith mumbles, checking behind the register for anything helpful. “...sorry about how I acted. Thanks for, uh, explaining it, I guess.”

Pidge grins, continuing their search.

Minutes pass and eventually they regroup at the register, putting their finds into Lance’s pack. Hunk sets down the two water bottles he found after crawling on all fours and using Lance’s arm to grab the bottles that had rolled underneath a counter, and they set to work on divvying the bottles into their respective bottles.

It’s still just as silent as they creep out of the store, Lance slinking past them to check out the area through his scope. 

“I can’t tell if the zones are empty,” he huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Buildings are blocking the...way…” 

“What is it?” Hunk inquires, readying his weapon in case of an attack. Lance suddenly just starts springing forward, long limbs leading him towards a shop across the street. Hunk panics, immediately putting himself in front of Pidge and Keith. “Shit, I think he saw something– c’mon, stay behind me and let’s follow him.”

They start chasing after him, having lost sight as he’d ducked into the shop. Keith pulls out his pistol, urging Pidge to do the same as they make their way inside. Hunk’s ready to throw himself into action, aiming his rifle but then letting out an exasperated sigh. “Jesus, _shit,_ Lance!”

Keith peeks from behind Hunk to see Lance half undressed, one arm pulled through a baseball tee. He swears he’s not staring at the rippling muscles on his back, nor is he looking at Lance’s glistening abs the moment he turns around, nope, not at all– 

“Hey! Sorry, I just needed a change of clothes. California’s hot! I couldn’t stay in that flannel for any longer.”

Hunk is on the verge of blowing up at Lance, taking a moment for himself to recollect the anger simmering over. A minute passes, and he looks up at the tall man with an aggravated look. Lance offers a sheepish smile, and Hunk turns on his heel to return to the car. Pidge tries very hard to look upset but can’t mask the raucous laughter leaving her when she realizes that Lance ran off without a word to change clothes. Keith, unsure how to deal with the situation, follows the others until he hears a low, moaning growl somewhere behind him. 

His head whips around and he doesn’t see any immediate danger, but what he does see is a dormant herd of biters snapping their teeth towards their group. It’s daybreak and the sun is high in the sky, and it dawns on him. No wonder he couldn’t see anything dangerous, they were all grouped up, and this is probably the quarantined group from before– and now, they were wide awake (Pidge must’ve woken them up with her laughter and Hunk having yelled out to Lance), meaning they were fast and _hungry._

“Oh, shit,” he whimpers, shaking Lance’s shoulder to break him from his stupor. “Run! It’s a fuckin’ herd!”

Lance cranes his head to look at the herd that’s stumbling all over each other to get to them, their legs breaking into a run. He lets out a yelp, bouncing on his heels before dragging Keith and shouting to Hunk, “Get to the fucking car, there’s a herd back here!”

By then, the herd has completely risen awake and they’re bolting towards the group, low growls resounding from the endless stream of biters. The air smells rancid, of rotting flesh and Keith swears he can see the decayed, ravaged body of a deer among them before he’s pushed forward by Lance to hurry. The herd’s caught up to them, rotting hands grabbing at their necks. 

He vaguely hears Pidge letting out a shriek, panic bubbling in his throat when he sees she’s been grabbed by a biter moving faster than the rest. Lance is already rushing towards her and shooting the corpse in the eye; there’s too much happening at once and there’s more biters lurching towards Lance. Keith steadies his pistol, taking out any immediate threats. Lance looks at him gratefully and steadies Pidge, urging her forth.

He’s pushing her forward too fast, fast enough that he barely notices the demolished, overflowed dumpster, forearm getting caught in a jagged piece of metal. He lets out a pained groan, grabbing his arm but nonetheless moving faster and into the car. Hunk jumps into the driver’s seat, the rest of them diving into the back seat; the car, luckily, starts before the herd can reach them and they speed off, panting from exhaustion.

“Fuck, fuck!” Lance growls, arm shaking as he observes his wound. It’s deep and there’s blood dripping onto the car seats pooling over his fingers, but Lance decides he doesn’t need stitches. He’s quivering when he tries to open his backpack for something to help. Keith slaps his hand away, wincing when Lance draws his arm to cradle it from movement, and digs through Lance’s backpack for something to help. There’s gauze and barely enough alcohol to clean the wound, but he uses it up anyways. Lance grabs his shoulder as he prepares himself for the pain, gritting his teeth and letting out a shriek of pain when the peroxide makes contact with his wound. White foam appears and Keith lets out a sigh of relief; no infection. He sets to work, quickly wrapping Lance’s wound while his head tilts back and rests back onto the car door.

“Fuck,” he says once more, when Keith finishes up and they recollect themselves. Everyone’s tired, but they’ve still got a ways to go and that won’t be the end of it. His gaze reaches Keith, who had just finished checking over Pidge for bites.

“Thanks,” Lance mumbles, offering a soft smile. “Guess we make an alright team, huh?”

Keith, for once, smiles in agreement and they continue on, tension settling over a group. One thing was certain for Keith: if things could go so bad so quick, how were they supposed to make it all the way to Canada?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a bit to get out, finals caught up with me!! also sorry if its super rushed i just want them out of cali... anyways, i hope everyones having a good day! im on break now so ill be writing a lot more ;) hope you enjoyed, and hopefully the next chap will be up in the next two weeks!
> 
> ps. voltron will be making an appearance in the next couple chapters in a weird way ;)


	3. of trust and peanut butter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight suicide mention this chapter, nothing too big

They reach their destination sooner than expected; the group is riddled with anxiety but they are exhausted, movements sluggish as they pile out of the car. Lance is still in obvious pain, having rejected the use of painkillers for his arm. “We’ll need ‘em later,” he’d said, waving off Pidge’s outstretched hand, offering a pill bottle. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

Keith looks over at him, expression full of concern but not quite managing to catch Lance’s eye. He catches Hunk’s gaze instead; he smiles, putting a hand on Lance’s shoulder and the two have a soft, mumbled conversation about his arm. Keith’s grateful; he would’ve asked, but Lance had practically shut everyone out as he recuperated. Keith is convincing himself he hasn’t started caring about them– Pidge is his top priority and friendships can’t get in the way of that, and that is _final._ It takes him a few more minutes to assure himself that.

They move into the city of Primm, having already raided the two gas stations they passed at the city entrance (Keith would like to mention they even tried Starbucks and were one hundred percent content with coffee beans and a canister of whipped cream left). A map of the city found tucked away behind the counter-top of Chevron Gas showed the entirety of Primm. Crowded around the map in the back of the van, the group planned their next move– and hopefully, find a place to rest for the night.

Pidge points out the casino resort towards the right of their location, beside the Texaco gas station they’d parked outside of. “It’s not far, and it’s probably huge. I’ll bet we can at least clear out a floor,” she offers, following the road that curved around the outlet mall and into the hotel with her hand. Lance nods thoughtfully, hunching over and scribbling a few notes, marking the places Keith vaguely remembered that were too dangerous in and along the city of Primm. He’s surprised by how much the tall man marks, leaving no corner untouched by his notes.

“You’ve got good memory,” he comments absently, watching Lance’s writings craft a highly-detailed layout of the city. Lance looks up, cocking an eyebrow but shrugging in response.

“Thanks, I guess. Most people think I’m smart, but I just have the memory of an elephant, I guess.”

Keith’s eyebrows furrow, biting back his questions and falling silent. By the time he’s able to converse properly again, Lance is folding up the map and climbing into the passenger’s seat while Hunk takes the wheel. Pidge slinks beside him, jabbing her elbow into his side with a mischievous smirk plastering her face. 

“He’s got good memory, huh?” she inquires cheekily, head in her hands and looking up at him patiently.

“Shut it,” Keith grumbles, pushing her face away with his hand. She squeaks, but continues her jests, blowing kisses towards the two of them.

“Deny it all you want,” she finishes, pawing her way underneath Keith’s arm and forcing the elder to massage her head, “but that river doesn’t run through Nevada, Keith.”

He shuts up to avoid further conversation, running his fingers through the tangled mess of sandy waves. He didn’t like Lance– not romantically, anyways. He’d came to respect the man, after seeing the lengths he’d go to protect his friends and how he dealt quietly with his inner demons. Of course, they all had stories of their own; but Lance’s own life seemed to include everyone’s story, as if he regarded others more than himself. Someone like that was both a blessing and a curse in this time– someone like that would give you their all in life and love, but Keith knew the inevitable fate that awaited them all.

 _Shit, overthinking too much,_ he thinks, snapping himself out of his thoughts and turning outside to stare at the passing stores and shambling biters. The time passed allowed him to once more recollect his thoughts and prepare himself for whatever came at them. They eventually roll into the lot of the casino, Lance already hunched over the map and noting the amount of floors and surrounding area of the resort. The lot they parked in is empty, fenced off from the rest of the area and Keith can only assume it’s employee parking. But they can plainly see the biters milling around the balcony, gurgling and moaning at each other.

Everyone is laser focused on the resort, formulating a plan to get inside the building as quickly and quietly as possible. Lance suggests travelling via the balcony, because they could assume the front door wasn’t an option. 

“I don’t think so, man,” Hunk shakes his head, pointing up to the balconies three flours high. “Too high to climb up, and boosting each other up will make too much noise. How about we try for that staircase there?”

Keith glances at the emergency staircase, glancing around the area. It seemed relatively safe, but the problem laid in the staircase itself.

“Staircase is only open when the fire alarm is pulled,” Keith points out, indicating to the warning sign and the fire alarm beside it. “It’s too dangerous to pull that when we barely know how many walkers were around.”

Lance mulls over their options, opting to take out his rifle and peering through the scope. He’s mumbling something about a distraction, when suddenly an “aha!” escapes him and he waves his hand furiously for them to look through the scope. “There,” he says, offering the rifle for Keith to look through. Following Lance’s hand, it directs him to an alarm past the fence and nestled beside another entrance for the hotel. 

“You want to pull that alarm? Jesus, are you fucking crazy?” Keith hisses, staring at him in bewilderment. “That’s just gonna make them all herd together.”

“Exactly!” Lance exclaims, pointing to the door. “It’ll unlock that thing, and the biters are all going to be busy so we can sneak in and clear out the floor and maybe even the lobby because they won’t hear us!”

He makes a move to snap some sort of retort back but falters; _shit,_ it’s a good plan. Begrudgingly, he nods in agreement before the question arises: “Who’s gonna pull the alarm?”

Lance clenches his jaw, getting up to leave the car. “Get ready to run in, and don’t wait for me.”

“Lance, hold on, you’re hurt,” Hunk says, pushing down his companion back in his seat, “you already took a few for us. Let me handle it–“

“No, no, it’s okay. I can handle it, buddy.”

“Hunk’s right,” Keith says, pointing out to the crowd of biters. “You can’t fight all those things by yourself if you get yourself into trouble. I’m fast, I can get through them. You’ve done enough.”

“Just because I’m hurt doesn’t mean I’m incapable,” Lance countered. “I can do it myself. I’m just as fast as you are, you’re not the only one who can fi–“

“All of you just _shut up,”_ Pidge grumbles, standing up in her spot with her dagger in hand. She’s already halfway out the door, patiently waiting for them to pay attention to her. “I’m small, fast, and if needed, I can crawl my way out of a group. I haven’t done much yet; let me do this.”

“Pidge, you can’t go out there by yourself!” Keith says, grabbing the door from behind her to prevent her escape. “I can’t let you do that. I– what if something bad happens, then what?! I can do it, please, just stay here.”

She shakes her head, hand gripping his shoulder and looking him dead in the eye. “I can handle this myself. You know I can; I’ll be in and out before any of them notice me.”

Keith clenches his jaw, worry pooling in his stomach for his friend when Lance speaks up. 

“Let her go,” he states, causing Keith to whip his head around in anger for allowing this when he sees the man standing outside behind Pidge, rifle in hand and bow and arrow slung behind his back. “I’ll watch her back and help her hop over when she’s coming back. You and Hunk start clearing the floor.”

Keith can’t kick the sense of worry, but feels the need to agree; he’s already saved Pidge before, and proven capable enough of jumping into action when necessary. It’s not like they have a choice; their window of time lessens the more and more they stand there arguing.

“Fine,” he bites out, pulling away from the two and gathering Pidge’s and his gear. “But if anything happens to her, I’m blaming it on you.”

“Don’t worry,” Lance says with a grin, “I won’t let one of those things touch a hair on her head. Not while I’m watching her.”

Something about the sentiment causes his ears to heat up and he looks away, sputtering an excuse before heading towards the staircase with Hunk. Pidge holds back a snort, and Keith watches the pair head towards the fence. With a boost from Lance, the girl climbs over easily and leans low to avoid the detection of the biters. Lance is watching her carefully, having swapped his rifle in favor of his bow. The less noise, the better.

Pidge makes her way towards the walls of the building, staying in the shadows and ducking behind pillars and empty cars. She’s obviously jittery, jumping at the slightest of movement but nonetheless keeping her head high and senses on alert. Her dagger is readied when a crawler takes notice of her, dragging itself from under a car on its hands. Keith could only imagine the odor, guts dragging across the concrete floors and skin pulled taut across its face and jaw slobbering in anticipation of a meal. It looked rancid, and the obvious sight of excrements surrounding it did little to help the group. He sees Pidge gag, slapping a hand over her mouth to prevent noise and pulling her shirt over her nose, slamming the dagger into it’s brain. Lance readjusts himself, watching her more carefully now as the threat of not only moving biters but those lurking under cars apparent. 

She continues on, and Keith loses sight of her as she dips around the bend and towards the alarm. Without the scope, it’s hard to see anything, but he can see Lance square his shoulders and visibly stiffen when, he assumes, Pidge appears at the alarm. A few moments pass, and they all wait in anticipation when the alarm begins blaring. Keith refuses to move until he sees Pidge barrelling towards the fence and Lance hopping over to assist any stragglers moving in. Assured in her safety, Keith nods towards Hunk and they move fast, opening the door into the lobby, machete in hand.

“I’m gonna barricade the entrance. Keith, just...go to town.”

“You got it.”

They separate, Hunk pushing his way past the biters and managing to push many away with the force of his kicks. Keith refocuses onto the immediate threat, observing his surroundings. Two biters are nearby, jerking themselves into his direction. The smell, of course, is putrid, and the sight of the biters isn’t much to look at either. 

“Sorry to cut the vacation short,” he sneers, swinging his weapon into the head of the nearest infected. It moans painfully, blade making contact with its decomposed brain before crumpling to the floor like a sack of meat. He grimaces, jumping away from the other biter. It lunges towards him, letting out a growl. Keith scoffs, shuffling behind the infected and reaching for the blade on his belt. He slams the dagger through the back of it’s head, kicking it off his weapon and continuing forward. Most attention had been drawn to Hunk’s movement, and Keith moves in fast to help the man out. By then, he’s certain Lance and Pidge have made it inside, but he wasn’t sure what they were up to.

“Keith, Hunk!” speak of the devil, “Pidge and I are gonna start clearing the floor above. You good?!”

“We’re good!” Keith cries hoarsely, machete slamming into the neck of a biter. “Go!”

He continues hacking through the group, exhaustion burning into his body and muscles screaming in pain. The day had been exhausting enough, and with the amount of bludgeoning he was pulling off, he could use a good nap. 

Hunk’s pushing as many random things in front of the entrance to barricade the doors, and when he manages to shove the last of the available desks and chairs in front of it, springs into action. He’s brandishing a rather sharp butcher’s knife, and Keith admits he’s impressed by his skill with such an unconventional tool. Together, they work through the infected group and finally manage to hack it down to the last pair of biters. A leathered, aged one stands before him, hawaiian button-up hanging off its skeletal frame and covered in bloody sludge.

“Orange isn’t your color,” Keith grumbles before reeling his dagger back and slamming it down to the hilt in it’s head, wiping the bloody dagger off on his pants. Hunk finishes off his share and they head upstairs to check on the others. 

They’re greeted by the sight of Pidge, biter pinned underneath her and weapon buried into its’ skull and a smile on her face when she notices them. “Hey guys!” she chirps, backing away from the infected and glancing back at Lance, who was wiping off the blood on his face and finishing off the last biter. “Made it just in time. Is the lobby clear?”

“Yup,” Hunk nods, waving her over. “Wanna come help me turn off this damn alarm?”

She nods excitedly, ready to get her hands on any form of tech and scampering off behind him. Keith dances around the various bodies on the ground and joining Lance. He holds up a key card, grinning wildly at the sight of Keith.

“Picked this baby off of a maid. Felt kinda bad about it, but I mean, she was dead. Or, undead. Wanna pick a room?”

Keith raises a brow but nods anyways, walking down the hall before settling on a room nestled in the middle; close enough to the lobby to escape anything, but far enough not to be an obvious target. He taps the door and listens for anything, and is blessed with no sounds coming from inside. 

“This one,” Keith says, freezing when Lance leans over behind him and puts the card in the lock. Panic settles and he’s fighting the blush crawling up his cheeks, trying very hard to ignore the way Lance’s long eyelashes brush his cheeks. Or how there’s splatters of freckles all across his face, or how he has such a serene look on his face, and the way this all seems to intimate for his thought process and how he’s got this dumb crush on Lance way too fast and blames it on the apocalypse– 

“After you,” Lance practically _purrs_ and Keith’s legs are heavy and shaking as he walks towards the beds. The room is clean, untouched from the horrors of the outside world and Keith revels in the miracle that is running water. He’s quick to refill his bottle, keeping his eyes trained on the sink and trying to ignore Lance’s presence at the bathroom doorway. 

Pidge and Hunk find their way in, and she shoots Lance an inquisitive look at his casual stance near Keith. 

“The water is working. I gotta fill up my bottle,” he explains, pointing to the shower, “and we should probably clean ourselves while we can.”

“I’ve never felt so blessed in my life,” Pidge says, faking a swoon against Hunk and waiting patiently for everyone to refill their bottles before running into the shower. Taking a moment to assess what just happened, they share a laugh and relax for the first time in the months that had led up to this day. Even if tomorrow turned out to be a shitfest, at least Keith could handle it as clean as he could get. Lance sinks down onto the floor beside him, stretching his muscles out before snatching up a leather-bound booklet from under the TV. 

“Let’s see here,” he says, sitting up and skimming through the booklet. “Now this says that room service only takes thirty minutes, what’s say we order some salmon and call it a day?”

“Pfft, you might as well get me a lobster while you’re at it. You think that those tacky shops downstairs have any food we can take?” Hunk asks, emptying his bag and assessing their inventory. “We have a decent amount of granola bars, but we ran out of canned foods yesterday. Can you guys go and try to scout some supplies back? I’ll keep an eye on Pidge and the little suckers outside.”

Lance lets out an all too dramatic sigh but obliges, picking himself up off the floor and beckoning towards Keith. “C’mon, let’s go find some Bugles or somethin’, Mullet.”

Keith nods, standing up and shucking off his jacket before following Lance back into the lobby. The taller lets out a low whistle at the carnage, following the sign that pointed to the gift shops and restaurants. “You guys sure did a number on these things.”

Keith shrugs, following Lance into the shops and triple-checking for any other signs of life. Nothing came fumbling towards them to rip them apart and eat the remains, so it was safe to assume they were alone. Lance makes a beeline for the small shops, checking the ransacked supplies of food for anything salvageable.

“Guess these people weren’t smart enough to take the stuff under the counter, huh?” he comments absently, crouching down and picking keys off of the sucker slumped beside the table. If the pistol in his lap and the bullet hole in his head said anything, Keith chose to ignore it. He took the keys from Lance as the man let out a heaving sigh, taking the gun and storing it in his pack. “Sorry, buddy.”

Keith huffed and unlocked the case, shoving the medical supplies in the glass case into his bag and taking anything else that could be useful. He also grabbed the toothpaste from underneath while he was at it, because who wouldn’t pass up the chance for clean teeth?

“You want red?” Lance asks, tapping the bright red toothbrush on Keith’s nose with a grin, “‘cause I’ve already called blue.”

He freezes up again, ears matching the damn toothbrush and snatching it out of Lance’s hand. He stands abruptly, marching away from Lance in search of anything else they could use. He, once again, elects to not acknowledge the way Lance laughs after his little spectacle. 

In the end, they don’t find much; everyone staying there must’ve gone through supplies and all they can find is a bag of rice and two jars of peanut butter. Keith takes one for Pidge, offering the other to Lance.

“Take ‘em,” he says, cradling the rice in his arms, “I know Pidge likes peanut butter.”

Keith continues to hold out the peanut butter.

“I’m serious.”

Keith yawns in reply.

“Ah, fuck you,” Lance mutters, snatching the jar and stalking off towards the staircase. “Why’re you so stubborn?”

“Why do you insist on being a hero?” Keith spits back.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Lance says, sending a toothy grin over his shoulder at the raven-haired man. “I get to save the day and attract some cuties like yourself, don’t I?”

“I– What–“ Keith sputters, nearly dropping the peanut butter on one of the carcasses. “You...what?”

Lance lets out a boisterous laugh, jogging up the staircase with Keith following, albeit with a racing heartbeat and face hotter than the blistering sun. They rejoin the others in the room, sharing their possessions and no one notices Keith’s face– save for Pidge, obviously.

Desperate to draw her attention away, he retrieves the jar from beside him and presents it to her. “We found some, so here. Take it.”

Pidge practically squeals in excitement, forgetting all her questions and taking the jar. “Did you get a– _ohmygosh_ you did!”

He’s only holding out a spoon to her but Pidge looks at it like it saved her life, immediately digging into the jar like an animal. Her hair is wrapped up in those wraps he’d always seen people do but could never do himself, and she generally looks ridiculous but content, and Keith is okay with that. 

They all finish up their bathing late into the day, the sun beginning to set when they’ve all gotten washed up. Keith is certain that sleeping arrangements are settled with no question, especially when they all decide to settle down for the night with a final glance out the window, certain that they were safe– at least for the night and with the locked door. 

Lance’s hair is sticking up wildly and the way he fixes it with a sweep of his hand amazes Keith, who looks like a wet dog with his wet hair. He slinks into the other queen-sized bed, Pidge having already claimed the one towards the window; Keith moves to sleep beside her when suddenly she lets out a screeching, “Wait!”

Everyone jumps to attention, instinctively reaching for their weapons when Pidge shakes her head. “No, it’s not anything like that. I just want to sleep with Hunk.”

“Oh,” Hunk sighs, putting his gun down, “if that’s all you wanted, you should’ve said so.”

She’s got the most evil smile on her face when Keith sends a wide-eyed, panicked look to her. Her eyes slide over to Lance, who’s gawking at Hunk’s betrayal as he settles beside Pidge.

“Pidge, c’mon,” Keith pleads quietly, trying his best not to arouse suspicion.

“Hunk’s like a radiator, he’s so warm! Plus, we fit better together because I don’t take up as much space as Lance.”

“Hey!” Lance cries, a pout on his face. “I’m a great bedmate!”

“Eh, you like to cling in your sleep,” Hunk comments, making room for Pidge who had wrapped herself like a koala around the bigger man. “It’s fine, just sleep.” 

Keith stays absolutely still, watching the other two already pass out the moment they hit the pillows, and Lance finally sighs. He snaps to attention, and looks over at the taller making room for Keith. “Well, what are you waiting for? Hop in.”

Keith is still for a few more moments before he decides to crawl in, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. He can already hear Hunk snoring, hyper-aware of Lance’s shuffling before the man finally settles. Keith’s fears bubble up in his chest like some sort of angsty gay preteen– what if he steals all the covers? Cuddles in his sleep? Moans Lance’s name in the middle of the night like some kind of heathen? The thoughts eventually do put him to sleep, worry replaced by the sense of safety in the tiny casino room.

The last thing he remembers is hearing Lance turn over to face him before succumbing to his slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, that was a little longer than usual lol. hope you enjoyed! i think thats the last super long chapter for a while, so things'll be a little shorter by now. hope you like pining keith because lance is definitely 100% unaware and just thinks keith is really easy to make blush. thx for reading !


	4. wise man from paradise

Waking up the next morning was both the best and worst experience Keith had gone through in months.

Something about the way Lance is curled around him, how Keith’s managed to settle himself in the crook of Lance’s neck and the soft snores right at his ear sends a chill up his spine. He feels so safe and warm here, like nothing could go bad in the world if he stayed there. 

On another hand, seeing Pidge’s evil gremlin face staring back at him like he’d just been caught watching porn on his laptop was a horrifying sight. Add Hunk’s all-knowing smile at him and Keith feels a banshee scream rip from his throat, clawing his way out of bed and causing both him and his bedmate to fall off. Lance hits the ground first, snorting awake and letting out an _“oof”_ when Keith’s arms slam into his stomach. The raven-haired man is quick to jump off, panting as if he’d run a marathon. Lance quirks an eyebrow, before spitting out, “Sheesh, what’s your problem?”

Keith feels the red hot heat crawling up his neck, and before he knows it, he’s yelling back. “W-What’s your problem?!”

“Me? You pushed me off the bed!”

“You were the one being all– all weird and cuddly!”

“Wh–” now Lance was blushing, scrabbling to sit up and shaking his head furiously. “I can’t help it, you dick!”

Keith is prepared to win this argument to salvage his pride when Pidge throws a pillow at the both of them, letting out a long, annoyed groan. “Okay, you guys cuddled, Keith freaked out, you both win! Now can we _please_ get this show on the road? If you haven’t noticed, it’s almost morning. Biters’ll be awake any second.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but follows Pidge’s orders. He’s decided to put away his jacket, seeing no use for it with the heat pounding at their necks. Everyone else has done the same and they could’ve passed as a group of friends on a summer road trip– but this was far from it, and what awaited them beyond Primm was a horrifying thought.

They save their breakfasts for inside the van and decide to stock up on as much water as they can. Lance has an empty jug in the van, and when they’d filled that up they make their way back to the car.

The ignition takes a few times to start, attracting the attention of a few biters but not enough to cause any trouble. Keith is in the driver’s seat this time, after Lance had gone on a dramatic rant about having to drive for so long and Keith offering to take the wheel. Of course, the tall man seemed a little peeved off when he slinked into the passenger’s seat (“You never said you could drive!”), but eventually got over it when they left the city.

A granola bar and a bag of stale Lays chips later, Pidge and Hunk were nestled in the back checking their supplies and medication they’ve procured to dump out anything unnecessary. Keith had switched on cruise control long ago, and now they travelled down the highway on their way to Las Vegas, Nevada. Their initial plan had been to avoid Las Vegas at all costs; but Keith had pointed out how dangerous that would be if their car broke down, and how long they’d be travelling on an open stretch of road. So they’d settled on a different method, but the same dread lingered over them: What _were_ they going to do once their car, inevitably, broke down?

Keith shakes the thought out of his head, instead watching Lance pick through his CDs. 

“I noticed you didn’t like my excellent choice of music yesterday morning,” Lance says, a disappointed sigh leaving him, “but no matter. I picked out something even an emo, mullet-haired guy like yourself will love.”

Keith scoffs, mumbling something along the lines of “I’m not emo,” and hushing up to listen to Lance’s playlist.

He expects something cheesy to play, like Evanescence’s “Bring Me to Life” or something by Fall Out Boy. What he doesn’t expect is what sounds like indie music, a guitar strumming over the radio and a soft voice singing about a girl. Keith doesn’t hold back his “huh” of surprise, tapping along to the beat of the song. He can hear Lance singing under his breath, head leaning back and looking...sad, if he could put a word to it.

“My brother made me this,” he says, tucking his knees into his chest. He looks so small, like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and Keith finds his heart gripping. He doesn’t even register Hunk and Pidge quieting, and Lance takes a shaky breath. The song is halfway through.

“It was my seventeenth birthday. He was twelve and just discovered that the best way to listen to music was to buy it, or torrent some random shit you found on the internet in hopes it worked. The little shit fucked up our computer for weeks until Pidge came and helped him– jesus, what were you, Pidge, fourteen? Anyways, he, he goes and makes this whole giant playlist for me and burns it on this CD. This– um, this one’s my favorite. _Sea of Love_ by Cat Power, it’s a cover.”

Keith feels his heart being ripped in half when Lance leans over to turn up the volume, obviously trying to mask the sound of his sniffling nose. “Sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his head. The song changes, and it’s another guy singing but with a violin and a guitar, this time. “Didn’t mean to say all that. That was stupid.”

“No, no,” Keith’s reply is almost immediate, “I’m glad you told me. Uh, this one’s nice. The song, I mean.”

Lance huffs out a breath of a laugh, settling his feet back on the ground. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“The fact that you like this song. It’s called _Zombie,_ of all things. Jay somethin’.”

“Brannan,” Hunk speaks up from the back, listening to the music wistfully. “Jay Brannan.”

Keith nods, hand gripping the wheel tighter. The gravity of their situation seemed to hit them after seven months of this hellish life. They were still just a bunch of kids, ripped away from their lives and forced to live life on their own. Keith could barely even call it living– it was _surviving,_ trying their best not to die and that in itself is daunting. Keith is only nineteen years old, and after living a lifetime of jumping from foster home to foster home, experiencing the worst of parents and the best when he joined Shiro’s family, and none of that compared to the fear of the apocalypse. 

The thought had caused them all to quiet, and they continue down the road in silence. Lance has taken to changing his bandages, Hunk is divvying up their medication and putting essentials into each of their bags, and Pidge is hunched over, making something that Keith probably doesn’t understand. They’ve settled now, and their presence is comforting.

That is, until the car starting making a strange rattling noise. 

Lance snaps up, listening in on the noise while Hunk leans in beside him. 

“Fuck, what is that?” Lance says, and keeps his eye on the battery. 

“Why did it drain so fast?” Keith says, tapping the battery needle when the car lets out a long groan; the wheel starts resisting against his grip and Lance jumps forward, turning off the ignition. The rattling stops and Hunk leaps out of the car, popping up the hood.

The first thing they see is smoke billowing from the engine and a strange odor emitting from the car. Hunk lets out a panicked noise, mumbling something about the engine overheating and desperately trying to save the car. Lance and Pidge climb out after him and Keith follows, peering at the engine from behind Pidge. She joins Hunk beside him, question after question about the engine, the alternator, the coolant in the car when Hunk slams the hood closed.

“I can’t believe it,” he cries, looking at the stretch of highway ahead of the group. “The car broke down! It broke down because whoever owned this car didn’t get their belt changed. Jesus Christ– nothing around here _works!_ We’re fucking dead if we don’t find another–“

Hunk is cut off by Lance’s frustrated scream, crowbar in hand as he slams the weapon into the side of the car. It hits the window and glass shatters, Keith instinctively taking a step away from the carnage. Now he’s just wailing on the car, swinging the crowbar frantically at anything he can get at. Hunk hasn’t tried to stop him, only sitting against the cracked median on the highway. Pidge is running her hands desperately through her hair, and Keith is just watching Lance tear away at the car. 

It takes a minute before Keith realizes Lance is crying, and he gets the urge to cry, too. It’s not that the fact that they had to walk was the problem; the problem came from the fact that they were going to be walking for days on end, and exhaustion would only creep on them sooner, and they’d have to be doing so much running. No more jumping into a car and speeding away from biters, now they were forced to face monsters whose hunger drove them quick on their feet, let alone how they would even handle a herd. So many things are racing through his mind and all he can do, at that moment, is join Lance.

He stomps into the back of the van and grabs the first weapon he sees; it’s a wooden baseball bat, which none of them had touched as far as he knew. Keith doesn’t exactly care and slams the door closed, going in and hurling the bat into the side of the car. A sizeable dent appears and he finds himself climbing on top of the van, staring down at Lance. He’s stopped to stare for just a moment, and when Keith slams the bat into the top of the car, Lance grins. Now they’re both going to town on the car, and the stress rolls off of his back.

They stop, eventually. The car is leaking gas, riddled with dents, and both Keith and Lance are laid out on the floor, huffing as if they’d run a marathon. Keith feels at peace, though; even if his cheeks are a little wet and Lance is still sniffling, it’s like a weight was lifted off his chest. He rolls over onto his side and gazes at his demolishing partner, who’s wiping the sweat off his face. Lance turns his head and gives him such a blinding, glorious smile that Keith feels a heat that isn’t from the sun sprawling across his neck, cheeks, everywhere it can reach. And Lance is just smiling, and for a moment, he forgets that he’s standing in the middle of the highway during the apocalypse.

Pidge voice cuts through his daydream: “Hey, starboy. Get up,” she says, nudging his foot. “We gotta start walking. It’s nearly a six hour walk.”

Keith nods, still staring at Lance in a daze but picks himself up off the ground. He offers a hand to Lance, who takes it gratefully and wipes the dust off his pants. He rubs at his face furiously and stretches, rolling his wrists.

“Okay,” Lance says, “I’m good.”

–

They were absolutely _miserable._  
After walking for what seemed like hours with no end in sight, the road begins to fill up with abandoned cars; sure, they’d seen a few scattered around, but it had been quite a while since they’d seen so many on the highway.

“Guess that means we’re close to Vegas,” Hunk mumbles, pulling out the knife from his belt. “Stay alert. There’s gotta be some biters out here.”

They continue forth, wary of their surroundings and with reason: they’ve only been walking for a short amount of time when they see a group of biters surrounding a truck. 

“Guys,” Keith says, pointing forward with his machete and crouching low. “Up ahead. Think we can sneak past?”

“No, they’d just smell us,” Pidge replies, stooping behind a car beside the elder. “We’ll just have to cut through them.”

“I’ll hang back and draw a few over,” Lance instructs, drawing his bow and notching an arrow. “You guys flank the others, okay?”

Keith and the others nod and move forward, waiting for Lance’s signal to continue. They hear a low whistle and a thump against the car they came from. They spot the infected staggering towards the noise, enough for them to take care of with ease. 

Hunk goes forward first, sneaking up behind the pair on the left while Pidge and Keith circle around to the right. Keith swings first, alerting the biter nearest to him with a click of his tongue. He swings his machete into the neck of the biter, slicing through as the head falls off and writhes on the ground. He gags a little, jumping back to slam his blade into the befallen head. Keith finds himself jumping back at the sight of a decayed face meeting his gaze, only to be stabbed in the head by Pidge’s dagger. She smiles down with at him with a grin, helping him back up on his feet. Lance’s arrow whistles past her head and lodges itself into the final biter’s head, and Hunk rejoins the group. Lance saunters up to them, plucking the arrows out of the crumpled bodies on the ground. 

“Someone’s gotta be in there,” Lance states, reaching for the pistol from the back of his belt. “Keith, get the door.”

Keith obliges, readying himself for whatever lay behind and counting him off, “One, two, three!” At three, he swings open the door and Lance immediately points the pistol at whatever lay beyond, when a– Australian, New Zealand? maybe, voice pipes up from inside.

“Wait, wait! Don’t shoot!” it cries, and Keith peeks from behind the door. It’s a man, huddled into the driver’s seat with a head of bright orange hair and a scruffy mustache, blood seeping through his clothes. There’s a wound in his shoulder, probably, as the man clenches his hand in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “I’m not bitten, I swear.”

“Show me,” Lance barks, pistol still pointed at the man’s head. The orange-haired stranger obliges, carefully pulling back his shirt with a whine of pain to reveal the bullet wound in his shoulder. Keith scrunches his eyebrows, trying to get a closer look at the injury, but the man covers it up once more. He shudders in pain and looks Lance in the eye, a few pants escaping him.

“I’m not going to hurt you– I _can’t,_ even if I wanted to. You can check me over if you’ll let me out.”

Lance clenches his jaw, but slowly lowers his weapon, taking a few steps back and watching the stranger carefully as he shifts out of his seat, legs quivering as they hit the floor. They’re all wary, Keith ready to draw his weapon if necessary. The man leans against the car and sighs, meeting their stares and lifting his hand in a half-hearted wave. Lance holsters his pistol and starts frisking him, checking for anything that could hurt them when the stranger speaks up.

“My name is Coran,” he croaks out, wincing as his shoulder is jostled around by the younger. “I promise this isn’t some elaborate ruse to take your weapons and leave you for dead– I just need to get back to my group.”

“Group?” Lance inquires, taking a step back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Uh, wait, I have a feeling you’re gonna be telling us a lot. Let’s all take a break,” he punctuates this by jumping into the bed of the truck, “okay?”

They nod and join him in the truck, Pidge leaning over to assist the newly-acquainted Coran. He gives her a grin with the most perfect, pearly-white teeth Keith has seen in the last six months. Coran has an easygoing aura around him, and he finds that some of the previous tension has escaped and been replaced with Coran-fueled enthusiasm. He sits beside Lance, legs crossed underneath him. He almost seems like a child, with the shining smile and the manner of his sitting, but Keith is certain he’s seen some shit.

“Oh, uh,” Hunk says, indicating towards the group. “My name’s Hunk. The tall one is Lance, the one with a mullet is Keith, and the small one is Pidge.”

“Fuck off,” she hisses, turning her attention back to the orange-haired man before her.

Coran begins with his name again, “Well, I’m Coran! Let me just start by saying this bullet is not self inflicted! Believe it or not, I got shot in a time like this. Ah, I was on my way to this rendezvous point with my group,” some time in between sitting and explaining, he’s pulled out a map of Las Vegas and points to an air force base just past Vegas, “when we got separated in Paradise, the city. I was forced to backtrack to evade some bad guys chasing after me and my group, and well, here I am now! Got shot by one of the guys on my way out.”

“Why was someone chasing after you?” Keith asks, listening intently into his story. Coran’s mannerisms only added to the effect, with his waving hands and the way he carried himself.

“Oh, quiznack!” Coran cries, slamming his palm into his forehead. “I didn’t even tell you about my group!”

“...quiznack?” Pidge whispers under her breath, earning a snort from Keith at her bewildered expression. Coran continues on, flying over the strange exclamation and rambling about his friends.

“We’re actually a branch of the resistance group I’m apart of. We used to just be a sort of zombie task-force against these things! We’ve actually made a lot of progress against those infected monsters out there, but we’ve encountered some trouble with another group who doesn’t take too kindly to what we’ve been trying to do…”

“Which is?” Lance coaxes, completely enamored with Coran’s story. “Sorry, I’m just really curious– I’ve never been apart of a group bigger than...well, this.”

“I’m glad you can live vicariously through me!” Coran chirps, smile still plastered on his face. “See, we’ve actually been trying to make a cure for this mess. While we know it won’t be especially helpful to those who’ve been infected from the beginning, we hope we can provide some kind of solace to anyone who’s still alive. Our goal, really, is that it can get out to the survivors as a last resort, and we hope we can provide enough of a powerful cure that those who’ve been infected past that immediate time-frame can revert to...well, being human!”

“Damn,” Lance utters, absolutely in awe of the story. “Has it worked at all?”

“Sadly, no,” Coran sighs, running a hand through his somehow perfectly styled mane. “We’re not giving up, but it’s a little hard with the amount of fighting going on to properly make any progress.”

“Who _exactly_ are you guys?” Hunk pipes up, having been listening while keeping his watch on any potential threats.

“We call ourselves Voltron,” He responds, pulling at his sleeve to reveal what looked vaguely like a stick and poke tattoo in the shape of a “V”. 

“These things got issued out last month so we can be a little more organized on recognizing members and stuff like that,” Coran explains, showing off the tattoo on his wrist, “so everyone’s gotta get them now, if they decide to join.”

Keith takes a moment to absorb the information, letting Coran take a break from his story telling. Lance, at this point, has fully accepted Coran into the group and moves to help the man with his injury. Coran sheds his shirt to reveal the various scars marring his skin, dirt clinging to the fresher of the wounds. The younger brings his attention to the bullet wound, fishing for their first aid and brandishing a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandages.

“That bullet went all the way through, so don’t worry about that,” Coran assures him, adjusting his arm so Lance can properly clean and bandage it. Lance nods, pouring the alcohol on his shoulder. 

“Yowza!” Coran shrieks, eyes bulging as the liquid makes contact with his skin, “that hurts worse than a snake bite on the buttock!”

“What the fuck?” Pidge lets out, full of disbelief at the man’s strange sayings. “I’ve never met anyone who talks like you do.”

“I get that a lot,” he answers cheerily, thanking Lance when he finishes wrapping his shoulder. Shimmying his shirt back on, the group settles in and decide to have something to replenish their energy. “We’re just outside of Paradise, and maybe this is a lot to ask for someone you just met, but you can join me until the base! I’m sure my group would be willing to provide any help in the long run.”

They all glance at each other, mulling over the offer silently. Keith didn’t think Coran would want to hurt them. He seemed genuine, like he truly wanted to help them on their journey. Keith also wouldn’t have been opposed to join Voltron; being apart of a resistance would give them more security and could help him reach Canada much easier than going solo. He meets Lance’s gaze, who’s giving this beaming smile towards the group and they come to a conclusion.

“Might as well,” Hunk speaks for them, lips curling into a grin, “We’ll see what’ll happen when we reach that air base, yeah?”

Coran nods enthusiastically, excitement apparent on his expression. This quickly falls when he sees Lance’s expression, eyebrows furrowed. “I forgot to ask something, Coran.”

“Shoot! I’ll answer anything.”

“Who’re the guys that want to fuck up your progress or whatever?”

“They call themselves Galra. Foreboding, isn’t it?”

Keith sees the color in his face visibly drain, head snapping up to look at Coran with a horrified expression. Hunk carries a similar one, darting between Lance and the other man in bewilderment. 

“Did you say _Galra?”_ Hunk stammers out, meeting Lance’s wide eyes.

“Do you know those guys or something?” Pidge asks, placing a gentle hand on Lance’s shoulder. He’s visibly shaken, taking Pidge’s hand in his own and curling his fingers around it, leg bouncing anxiously.

“Too well,” he mutters, trying to calm his nerves through Pidge and Hunk’s comforting presence joining them on the floor of the trunk. Keith leans forward, keeping his hands to himself but peering at Lance, trying to gain his attention. He eventually glances up, gazing so intensely in the violet pools staring back and he takes a long, deep breath. “Right. Well, I can just show you.”

He moves away from the group and turns around, pulling his shirt off enough to show them the scar on the lower half of his back. Keith is absolutely baffled in that he didn’t notice it before; he’d seen him shirtless, even if it was fleetingly. The scar covers nearly the entire area, freckled, brown skin mottled by the marbled appearance of the burn. It’s leathery and shows the amount of pain it had caused, and Keith’s instinct tells him to reach out and touch it. He doesn’t, but Lance is squeamish under their gazes and he quickly covers himself again. 

He faces them again, letting out a quiet sigh and clips a quiet explanation. “I got caught up with some of those dudes when me and Hunk got separated for a few days. Tried taking them out on my own, but one of those pricks molotov’s my ass when I was trying to get to higher ground. I fuckin’, fucking got set on _fire,_ dude, but I was able to put myself out and take out those sons of bitches. Hunk found me a little bit later with my skin all bloody and blistered and just gross; we went out and one of those guys didn’t die from my rifle and when I went to go take him out, he said “long live Galra” then just up and died. We tried trailing their other guys, but it got too dangerous so we had to stop. I guess it’s coming full circle.”

Coran nods quietly, taking the information into consideration and jumping out of the truck. He’s changed to subject, having sensed Lance’s discomfort with the discussion. “Well, safety in numbers. We’re losing daylight, so we should maybe get moving into Vegas, alright?”

They all respond in approval, hopping out of the car and following Coran down the highway. Lance trailed behind the group, quiet in wake of the new knowledge given to him. Keith slows down, falling into step beside the taller (which does not go unnoticed by Pidge). 

“You okay?” he mumbles quietly, vaguely aware of Lance’s arm brushing against his own. Lance moves in closer, obviously appreciating the presence of someone else with him. 

“I’m okay,” Lance drawls, rubbing the back of his neck and kicking at the ground underneath him. He’s strangely quiet, almost unnervingly so. Keith, unwilling to let the conversation die and have Lance wallow in his self-pity jumps into the first thing he can think of.

“If it’s any consolation,” Keith admits, awkwardly fumbling with the dagger in his hands, “I think scars are pretty cool.”

Lance stumbles, snapping his eyes over to Keith and letting a smirk adorn his features. “Oh yeah?”

“Shut up,” Keith grumbles, earning a chiming giggle from Lance. Keith looks over and sees him with a content smile. He’s calmer now, no longer fiddling with the hem of his shirt and strolling quietly alongside Keith. 

They’re walking for a while, and can see the city peaking over the horizons of the road. Coran tenses, drawing his weapon and prompting the others to do the same.

“Keith,” Lance speaks up, rifle in hand as they move closer to the city. “Thanks...for that thing.”

The raven-haired man nods, placing a hand on his shoulder in a silent gesture of respect and they continue into the city, the outskirts of Paradise, Nevada just in their reach.

“I should warn you,” Coran addresses their group, turning his head to face them, “I doubt the Galra have left that area so soon. Be on high alert; I can’t promise we won’t get into a bit of a scuffle.”

Solemn in spirit but attentive and hyper-aware in sense, they step into Paradise, weapons drawn and ready for whatever lay ahead. It was quiet, eerily so like it had been in Barstow; the only difference lay in the grotesque, horrific sight that greets them.

The bodies of the infected in every place their eyes could see, milled down by what appeared to be every weapon one could get there hands on. The sight itself was shocking, but not so much the worst before them: a mounted head, severed from its body and mouth agape in terror. The corpses of to what Keith could see was at least ten bodies all stacked in a bloody pile. Coran’s whimper and somber, “oh, no,” sent a chill through his spine as the realization struck him hard: these weren’t infected, they were _people,_ and most likely Coran’s men. The most haunting aspect was the ominous message, slapped on the building before them written in the blood of those who had been murdered viciously.

It read “Long live the Galra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. that was heavy. hope you enjoyed it, though! its not gonna get any prettier from here though i will warn you  
> also lmao this wasnt supposed to be this long but...Yea. also i guess that "M" rating is finally coming full circle bc its abt to get pretty gross rip rip..


	5. a long way from home

Keith doesn’t realize he’s going to puke until he does it.

He stumbles off towards the side and keels over, clutching his stomach as raw, burning bile climbs out of his throat and he’s vomited all over a dead infected. His head is pounding, and he vaguely hears the same sounds of retching to his left– Pidge, probably– and Lance’s dry heaving to his right. Hunk keeps uttering out, “oh god, oh my fucking _god,”_ and stumbles back into even more infected. But Coran is beyond words, hand clasped over his mouth in shock and Keith sees the tears in his eyes before he’s hunched over again. He throws up his breakfast and then some until his throat itches, and he sits back on his knees. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ The buzzing in his head is relentless and he tries to recollect himself. _Assess the situation,_ Keith thinks, resorting to his multistep method of getting his head screwed on straight.

There was a pile of dead bodies in front of him, he recognizes. These were probably Coran’s group, his– his _friends,_ jesus fucking christ Keith they aren’t just corpses, what the fuck are you even DOING—

He slams his fist into the ground and lets out a wretched screech, fists clenched into the ragged denim of his jeans.

The brutal crack of his knuckles is enough to throw the others out of their panic. Lance snaps his head towards Keith then to Coran, who has the face of a broken man. Coran is crying, and something about the sight of a man beyond his years sobbing is enough to send a boiling arrow of hatred pierced in his heart.

 _Yeah,_ Keith decides, _I fucking_ hate _Galra._

Lance is the first to move, pressing a hand to Coran’s back who in turn sinks his head into the man’s shoulder. It’s easy to mistake such a tender moment to be between family, and the way Lance wraps his arms around Coran and hugs him tight, is enough to solidify the thought. 

Keith moves to his feet, legs shaking from his earlier sickness and watches the scene before him. Lance has Coran facing him, mumbling assurances, condolences, everything he can in a low voice. Coran is just nodding, exhausted and tired but seems to acknowledge the dire necessity of moving on. He takes one last longing look at the horrible, horrible sight and turns to thank Lance.

They all look at him, when he holds his hand up to silence the group. His jaw is clenched impossibly tight and he’s obviously listening for something. Dread rears its ugly head to Keith and he darts his eyes around trying to understand what the fuck Lance is doing, so he just asks.

“Lance, what the fu—” his statement is cut off when the ringing sound of a gunshot echoes in their ears and whizzes past Keith, white-hot fear gripping like a vice in his pounding skull. They all scramble for cover, Lance pushing Coran away from the sudden onslaught of shots that follow. Keith charges the first building he sees with Lance hot on his heels, half-expecting the others to follow. He’s horrified when he sees Pidge run in the other direction with Hunk and Coran and that same fear is squeezing itself around his throat, and everything is going too fast, he feels too weak, too conflicted, thoughts are running a mile through his head when Lance’s hand on his shoulder jolts him back to reality. 

It takes him a second to rehabilitate himself and breathes deeply, perching beside Lance to carefully glance out the window. Almost immediately, a bullet is headed towards his skull and he scrambles for cover. Lance drags him behind the counter. The sight of cups and plates indicate what’s most likely a diner, and Keith immediately starts searching for the nearest reflective surface.

“What’re you doing?!” Lance cries from behind his rifle, laying down a few blind shots and watching the madman on his knees, throwing plates across the floor. It isn’t until he finds a spoon that’s mirroring the confused, emo teenager that is Keith, then he explains.

“Pidge,” he says, crawling towards the nearest patch of sunlight and dragging Lance with him. “She’s got my flashlight. I-I gotta signal to her.”

Lance glances out of the shattered glass and ducks down seconds later when a rain of bullets zero in on them. Then he just watches as Keith takes the stupid spoon and starts moving it in front of that sunlight until a bright, glaring light flashes from it.

“There!” Keith yelps and kicks Lance’s rifle, “Check through your gun, and look for a light, now!”

“Okay, okay!” Lance replies, waiting until the bullet hell calms to look through his scope. Sure enough, three quick successions of flashing lights shine from a higher ground. He ducks back behind cover, and relays his sights. “I think it was her? I guess.”

“How many flashes?”

“Um, three really fast ones?”

Keith lets out a sigh of relief, discarding the spoon and replacing it with his pistol. “Holy shit, okay. They’re okay.”

Lance nods, still unsure of the whole situation but continues watching Keith as he digs in his backpack. Keith has to look like some sort of fucking survivalist (he’s not denying it) when he pulls out a goddamn _walkie-talkie._

Lance awkwardly coughs into his fist, and Keith realizes he’s trying not to laugh about his walkie. 

“Fuck off, it’s for emergencies,” he growls, and turns on the receiver. 

“Pidge,” Keith grumbles, smacking his hand on the speaker with utmost engineering genius and finesse. A garbled static comes seconds later, and he’s relieved to hear his friend’s voice.

“Keith!” she exclaims, elated in her friend’s safety, “I guess these things did come in handy.”

It’s a little hard to hear her with Lance’s rifle going off right into his ear, but he doesn’t make it any easier when he peeks up and lands a bullet into the arm of a glock wielding sonofabitch. He’s trying his best to fend off any, what he assumes is Galra, enemies while listening to Pidge’s predicament.

“Keith, we can’t get to you. You’re pinned down, and–,” the speaker cuts out and dips back into static until it comes back alive moments later, “–about to be ambushed– have to keep movin–…”

“Go!” he yells into the transmitter, landing another shot in a beefy Galran’s shoulder. “Get to the base, we’ll meet you there!”

Him and Lance work fast, Lance trying his best with his rifle from their position while Keith searches for an escape route. The most obvious he can see is through the kitchen, but judging from the telltale groans of the infected from behind the door, they’d have to fight their way through. Leaving Lance to handle the Galra moving in on their position, Keith creeps behind the door and swings open the door. A pair of biters stumble out the door and towards Lance, but only make it so far before Keith’s legs swing out from underneath him and knock the biters off their feet. They fall in a heap, and he jumps on top of the first, dagger sinking into the rotting temple of the nearest one. The other is struggling to stand with it’s foot caught under its ugly companion, and Keith pinches his nose immediately when the fucker’s decaying foot detaches itself from the equally gross body. He doesn’t falter, though, and crawls over as fast as he can, successfully pulling him back down and blowing its brains out with his gun.

“Lance!” Keith barks, said man whipping his head back to meet the fiery violet orbs, “We gotta go!”

Lance nods, hesitating only for a moment and staring at the building where the others were before scrabbling after Keith’s retreating form. They make their way through the kitchen fast, stooped low to avoid any potential detection and managing to elude the Galra through the back door. Lance observes their surroundings, waiting with baited breath as the men storm into the restaurant. One man had spotted them and gave chase immediately, shooting in their general direction but was cut short by Lance’s rifle. Desperate to get out of the area as fast as they can, they spot their haven from across the street; a never-ending stretch of houses and plenty of places to hide. 

They move fast after seeing that, dodging behind buildings and eventually holing up in the endless suburbs of Paradise. The house they’re residing in sat towards the corner of the street, and it’s home to a few nasties. Keith’s only vaguely aware of the tingling, burning in his arm; he’s hopped full of adrenaline as he swings his machete into the neck of a biter, and isn’t at all hindered from the pain. Luckily, they make it through the infected with little problem and flop on the floor, exhaustion curled into their bellies.

Keith is the first to sit up, suddenly very aware of the pain shooting through his left bicep. He manages to catch Lance’s attention when he groans in pain, who in turn lets out a yelp.

“Keith! Holy fuck, you’re bleeding!”

“What? I am?!” Keith cries, immediately landing his gaze on the red blossoming on his sleeve. A shocked screech escapes him and he throws off his shirt, only to once more, yell out in pain from the panicked movement. Lance’s hands are on him immediately, and Keith can’t hide how fast his face flushes. Here he is, bleeding out and blushing because some cute guy is tending to his _bullet wound._

“Keith, buddy,” Lance quakes, patting Keith’s uninjured shoulder. “I gotta– I gotta clean it. You’ve got an exit wound, so, so that’s good, but– fuck, dude, you might cry a little.”

“Just get it over with,” Keith bites out, panic ringing in his ears when Lance stands and begins to search for something to clean it with. He’s throwing the cabinets open, in an absolute flurry and the pain finally sinks in. It burns so bad, a white-hot searing pain and he bites his lip to keep himself from bursting into tears. He’s never been shot before; sure, he’d been slashed and stabbed by switchblades but getting shot was a whole other ballpark. His heart is beating so fast and he’s afraid he’s going to pass out, but Lance snaps him awake when he kneels over him and takes his cheek in his hand.

“Hey, bud, you gotta stay with me, okay?” Lance murmurs, brushing Keith’s bangs away from his sweaty forehead. “This is gonna hurt really bad, and I don’t want you biting your tongue or somethin’.”

Lance then offers him a belt he’d picked out of the master bedroom, prompting the injured man to place it between his teeth. He’s so fucking scared of the pain that was to come, especially when Lance doesn’t stop Keith’s hand from slinking behind his neck to hold on to. His beautifully worried eyes, rivaling the depths of the sea and the navy expanse of the skies pierce his own violet eyes with such a look of concern that Keith absolutely _melts._

Until the bottle of vodka Lance procured splashes over and into his wound, that’s when he starts screaming. 

Keith’s wail of pain is mostly muffled by the leather in his mouth but he can’t stop his eyes from watering and the pathetic whimper he lets out when Lance soaks a rag with the liquid and cleans it as best as he can. It was one thing for a cut to be cleaned; but for a gunshot wound to be cleaned with a bottle of Absolut and an embroidered rag with no real medical talent around to help, it hurt like a bitch. He’s quivering when Lance moves to wrap the wound in what little gauze they have.

“S’not gonna be enough,” Lance groans, looking over at Keith’s discarded, bloody shirt. “Sorry, buddy.”

Keith watches in horror as his shirt is ripped in half, now in tattered remains as Lance wraps the cloth tightly around his bicep. “You dick.”

“You weren’t gonna wear it though, were you?”

That shuts him up.

Lance stands to his feet and helps Keith onto his own, pointedly trying to look away from the other’s slim waist and glistening, sweaty abs and the rippling arm muscles he’d gained from months of machete-based labor. Keith feels hot under his gaze and Lance’s smoldering eyes do nothing to help his predicament.

“I’m, uh. Gonna go find a shirt.”

“Yeah, do that.”

Keith scurries off as fast as he can towards the direction of the bedrooms. He dives into the first room he sees, and is greeted by a variety of posters and albums hung on the midnight-blue walls (Keith thinks absently that he’s been seeing too much blue, lately). He’s quick to observe the room: a Sublime album, a framed photo of Channing Tatum on the nightstand, an empty package of Twizzlers, and the slightly unsettling mini-series of My Chemical Romance posters. He shivers, violently reminded of his emo kid phase and opts to dig for something to wear.

This turns out to be harder than expected, as his wounded arm can barely move more than an inch and his left arm is his dominant. He fumbles a little when he decides to just remove the drawer entirely, dropping it onto the messy bed and picking through the clothing.

Keith wouldn’t call himself a picky guy. He was more than willing to wear the first shirt he saw, but that idea was quickly banished when the first shirt he picked was a “Blood on the Dance Floor” tee. He gags, throwing it across the room and continuing his endeavour when he realizes the horrifying amount of scene kid tees whoever lived here owned.

He’s about to give up when he finally, finally finds his saving grace in a weathered, hem torn v-neck that maybe slumps a little on his shoulders, but he doesn’t care. The coverup is welcome. 

Keith returns to the living room to find Lance sitting on the couch, brandishing a can opener and opening a can of peaches. Keith’s stomach grumbles in excitement, and he joins the taller in the loveseat. 

“Here,” Lance mumbles, sliding over a bottle of painkillers to his companion. “Use ‘em. Your arm’s gonna feel worse in a couple hours.”

Keith nods, taking the pills and together, they eat their canned peaches. 

– 

They don’t realize how long they may have to hide until the Galra are strolling down their street. 

It’s only a few of them, at first. The pair hide inside the hidden attic and watch from the window, keeping a careful eye on the patrols and groups. If there isn’t one of the groups searching the area, it’s one of the men. Keith notices there’s really only ever one lone man searching for them; a tall, beefy man with thick sideburns and a goatee. He’d almost spotted them before, standing in front of the house before his dark eyes flashed in their direction. They were quick to dodge his gaze and expected an ambush only seconds later, but there was only silence.

It was like this for a week; curled up into the sweltering attic and surviving off of granola bars and hesitant sips from their water, watching more and more of the Galra soldiers make camp in the neighbourhood.

It isn’t until after the tenth day of their predicament when Lance notices something. 

“Keith, Keith, look,” he whispers, pulling the other out of his quick catnap. He’d just finished taking watch when Lance stirs him out of slumber and glances out the window. 

“What?” Keith grumbles, dragging himself beside Lance and peering into the man’s scope. Lance repositions the rifle carefully, and Keith is ever so _painfully_ aware of the warm, clammy hand resting on the small of his back. 

He looks into the scope again and spots the strangest, yet most comforting thing they’d seen in their time at the house. A motorcycle, of all things, standing proudly beside Mr. Big Sideburns and a bit aways from the rest of the Galra.

“That, my friend,” Lance croons, taking the rifle from his hands, “is our ticket out of here.”

They spend the following hours formulating a plan, according to the Galra’s patrols around the town, and make it their goal to make it in and out as quietly as possible. Lance notes that the other side of the highway is their best route to avoid Galra detection, but it’d be nearly impossible to make it past without the infected getting to them first. So they decide to simply travel by the road adjacent to the highway as far as they could until they could merge back onto the highway, and towards the base. 

“We’ll have to do this at night, and have our little distraction set up before we go– _fuuuck._ ”

“What’s up?” Keith inquires, glancing up from cleaning Lance’s rifle. 

“I don’t know how to use a motorcycle.”

Keith shrugs, returning to the rifle in his hands. “I can ride, just make sure you cover me while I start it up.”

Any question Lance had rolls of his tongue, and he simply nods. “You do seem like the type.”

– 

They wait for another three days before they set their plan in motion. Really, the days are spent catching up on sleep and sneaking around the house to create an integral part of their plan: a molotov. Keith makes sure all of their weapons are functioning as best as they can, as well as diligently observing their escape route. The only one who ever hangs near that motorcycle is Sideburns, and between the two of them, it should be easy to take him out if he was to come back.

Their plan was simple in words; draw the Galra’s attention with the molotov (they’d already set up the area during the dead of the night when most of the men were asleep, by dousing the road in front of them with the bottles of alcohol they’d found), then circle around out back and take the bike. Most of the plan was to be done during the night, right before the men had gone to bed so they could draw the most attention.

Keith’s nerves are all frayed when Lance creeps out to the front door as moon begins to rise to the sky. Keith waits by the back door, avoiding windows in case any of them decided to look out back and see him. The taller is quick to set the rag on fire, throwing it out of the front door as fast he can. 

The chaos is almost immediate as the molotov sets the road on fire, causing commotion among the Galra as they rush towards the house. Lance barrels into Keith as they sprint out to the backyard, jumping fences as they desperately run towards the end of the street.

They’re panting when they reach the motorcycle, the bike sitting alone but with no keys in the ignition. Lance stoops over, trying to see if it’s possible to hotwire in any way when Keith feels a hand on his shoulder.

He whips his head back, eyes wide and raising his pistol in response. “Step the fuck back!”

Lance is already aiming his rifle at the Galra, eyes blown open when he sees Sideburns in front of them, shushing them and holding the bike’s keys out to them.

“Good plan. Get out, now, before they notice something’s up,” he says, voice gritty when Lance snatches the keys out of his hand. He steps back, hands in the air and waits until Keith starts the bike to explain further.

“Tell Coran that he owes the Blade a favor,” is all he says, staying until Keith hops onto the bike and Lance climbs behind him. “You two stay safe. The base isn’t too far from where we are, so you’ll get there before daylight.”

“Who the hell are you?” Lance whispers, tucking his gun away with no apparent threat.

“Thace. Now go!” Thace barks, turning and running towards the direction of the fire.

Keith speeds off, down the street and towards the Nellis Air Force Base, confusion settling into the pair.

It seemed Coran would have to answer a few things when they made it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this was kind of a rushed chapter which im kinda...eh about but i will elaborate more on it next chapter. also if you didnt notice, there was a two-week skip of time between when the galra first arrived and then they escaped, so hmm!!! what could've happened in that time? hope you enjoyed it, and ill have the next chap out asap ;) 
> 
> ps. the klance will only get stronger from here


	6. reunions and happy campers

They park the motorcycle away from their destination and walk the rest of the way.

It’s evident that they need to talk. Well, more like Keith needs to come to terms with whatever the hell he feels towards Lance. The past three weeks, from meeting him to their time together in that house had progressed their relationship faster than he’d ever imagined. Lance had gone from boisterous, loud and arrogant to the sweeping warmth against his cheeks and eventual calamity that he would bring. Lance had placed himself into Keith’s life like he’d belonged there, and no surprise, Keith pushes him away.

It starts with his hands.

_Keith sits in the attic corner, chewing thoughtfully on the Clif protein bar. There’s a comforting quiet as Lance stoops low over his arm and sets to work on wiping away the dried blood. Keith’s arm still throbs painfully, but the meticulous amount of care put forth by his companion saves him from the worst of it; it’s the first time they’ve cleaned it in four days, and Lance is wrapping it in more shreds of his old t-shirt._

_His hands are gentle as they tie off the shirt and he sits beside Keith, flopping onto his back. His fingers dance along the rubber soles of his boots and up his calf, soft as a mouse. Keith is very aware he is anything but. Lance was a lion, ferocity and arrogance springing off him like it was a job and he finds it all too familiar._

_“If I was an animal,” the tall man croons, sitting up and meeting Keith’s violet gaze. “I’d like to be a bird.”_

_“Why’s that?” The question feels like cotton in his mouth._

_Lance’s fingers skim across his cheek, fingernails grazing the his ears as he tucks a lock behind his ear. Keith’s neck is burning. Lance’s eyes are beautiful._

_“You’d get to see the world.”_

Lance’s rifle is a welcome distraction to his offroad train of thought, the sound of it reloading dragging him out of his stupor. They can see the base clearly, and their nerves are in a fray. Part of Keith thinks that he’s going to find everyone shot dead at the entrance. The other three halves understands they are capable of managing to escape safely, but it does little to calm that paranoid part of him. He’s ashamed to admit the tiniest fraction of his heart just wants to turn heel and run away like an absolute coward. But knowing Lance, the man would tackle him and slap some sense into him before he’d even make it a foot away.

Keith runs a tentative hand through his hair, combing it over once, twice, three times before he pulls it into a ponytail. The heat is still unbearable, and Keith’s certain that he’s either perpetually sunburnt or has the same amount of freckles as Lance, if not more.

The thought makes him blush like a school-girl. He’d spent too much time looking at Lance’s face, these days.

The two of them are exhausted. They’d finished the last of their food supply (granted, they didn’t have much to begin with) a few days after they’d arrived in the suburbs, and had lived off of water bottles they were lucky to have refilled before all this Galra shit had gone down. It was purely luck when Lance chuckled about the “motorcycle’s fanny pack” and rummaged inside to find some ammo, and to their absolute fucking _joy,_ two Quaker Chewy chocolate chip granola bars.

How it ended up there, they ended up finding out when they fished inside the pouch for more. There was a scrawled note tucked into the corner, presumably from that Thace guy: “Courtesy of the Blade. You owe me one.”

That had solidified the theory that Coran and Thace most likely knew each other, and were some kind of alliance despite Thace’s affiliation with the Galra.

Of course, they theorized about this on their journey. Lance suggested they were a badass military group in a sort of “turf” battle with the Galra. Keith is quick to rebuke this, saying that it’d be more likely the Galra were freaky space aliens bringing troops to exterminate the zombies, destroy their enemies, and then take over the universe. Lance tells him he watches too many cartoons, and Keith agrees.

They trudge forth, drinking enough water to rehydrate themselves if they needed to make a quick escape. Keith’s feet are heavy and dragging themselves, and he sees Lance is doing no better than he is. They’re both terribly miserable, the only drive being their friends just beyond the gates of the base. 

Right. The gates.

The moment they make it there, the realization dawns on them that they’ll have to climb the fences to make it in. They are grateful for the obvious places that barbed wire had been cut down to make it inside the base, and are over and into the base moments later.

Keith takes out his walkie-talkie; the distance between them had been too great for it to function properly, but the base itself is big enough to get lost in. They’d already made it past most of the adjoined city life and now they were here, mountains as far as they could see. Keith waits for the static to clear in his walkie, Lance leaning in to listen. 

After a few moments, he clears his throat and speaks into the receiver, “Pidge? It’s Keith, are you okay?”

They only get more silence, and wait a few minutes before trying again. 

“Pidge? Hunk? Coran?” he calls, sharing a worried glance with Lance. A few more beats of silence pass, and he’s struck with relief when Pidge’s crackling voice sounds over the speaker.

“Keith!” she cries, so loud the speaker whines out in protest. A big grin sweeps over his cheeks and Lance shrieks in happiness, swinging his arms around Keith and lifting him high in the air. He has little time to react before he’s back on the floor, absolutely dazed and lets his walkie get snatched out of his hands. He can barely hear Pidge and Lance’s ecstatic conversation, head swirling with thoughts.

In the last three weeks, Lance has hugged him twice.

_It’s grotesquely humid in the attic, Keith notes._

_The heat makes him sleepy. Even if the two of them were acclimated to intense heat (living in Texas/Cuba does that), nothing is worse than humidity. It’s sticky, hot, and his hair is slick against the back of his neck. He’s miserable, taking the first watch of the night as Lance tries to sleep beside him. It’s obvious he’s still awake, tossing and turning uncomfortably on the creaky wooden floors. They’d barely just switched but Lance was restless, and a restless Lance was a dangerous distraction on his watch._

_Keith sighs, setting the rifle in his arms next to the window and slides beside Lance. The taller is quick to look up, darting his eyes to and fro the window and Keith._

_“No one’s going to come in. We can rest for a little bit,” he mumbles, eyes cast down at his palms. He can hear Lance sit up beside him, and can just barely see his form turning to face him. He lets his eyes rake up his body, from his feet to the top of his head before they meet the bottomless ocean staring at him._

_Lance is crying. They’ve both cried a lot, lately, but the way Lance is crying is heartbreaking in every way. His eyes are watering, and he’s desperately trying to hold everything in and all Keith wants to do is wrap him in a blanket and shield him from the horrors of the world._

_He reaches a tentative hand towards the Cuban, letting it fall on his knee instead._ Don’t overstep your boundaries, Keith. __

_“I miss my mom,” Lance sniffles, voice cracking at every word. Keith squeezes his leg and for once, Lance doesn’t draw away. “I miss Cuba, and Varadero Beach, and pizza and my family, and my old college and I miss— I miss home, Keith.”_

_“Lance,” Keith murmurs, eyes trained solely on the man before him. He’s furiously wiping at the tears in his eyes, and Keith pulls his hands away before Lance starts doing anything more. He’s noticed it and acknowledged it as a bad habit; if he was to let Lance keep rubbing at his face to hide any fact that he showed any weakness, he would’ve started scratching._

_Scratching was no good._

_He has Lance’s wrists in a firm grasp, leaning forward and jerking his chin to look at him well. “Look at me, Lance.”_

_A whine escapes the man in front of him and Keith offers him a smile. “It’s okay to miss things, Lance. We all do. You can cry all you want. It’s okay. You’re okay.”_

_There’s a few beats of silence, and Keith’s heart is pounding in his chest when Lance tugs his hands away. He’s afraid he fucked up, he said the wrong thing and he can’t help that panicking response—_

_Lance yanks him forward and he’s tumbling into those strong arms and one arm is wrapping around his waist and one hand is holding his neck so gently and oh my fucking god Lance was hugging him._

_He’s unresponsive at first. Arms hanging limply at his side as the Cuban tucks his face into the crook of his neck. Keith doesn’t know where to put his hands and he’s nervous that even putting his hands on him will cause some sort of problems. So he sits, practically in Lance’s lap and lets the other wrap his arms around him, tighter._

_“At least hug me back, dammit,” his companion chuckles against his neck, breath hot and sending so many tingles up his spine._

_“Oh. Um, sorry,” Keith squeaks out, earning another laugh as he slinks his arms around the man’s upper back. It’s an awkward hug, sure, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world._

_They sit there, comfortable quiet and Keith dares to bury his face on the man’s shoulder, and that just makes Lance pull him in closer. This was nice, very,_ very _nice and Keith wants to stay here forever._

_Alas, they cannot, and Lance pulls away when they’ve sat there for a solid five minutes. He smiles, so gently and so beautiful and Keith just wants to hug again._

_“Thank you,” he whispers, dragging the hand at his neck to his cheek, “it means a lot.”_

_Keith only swallows, mumbling a “you're welcome” before Lance slips away back onto the floor, and rolls over to nap. That’s his cue to continue his watch, and when he looks out through the scope to make sure the Galra are still in their area, the realization hits him like a train._

_He is so, so, so fucked._

Keith floats back into reality with the softest smile on his face, catching the last of Pidge’s rambling. They’re not too far away from where the pair currently was, and Pidge offered to go out and retrieve them.

So they wait. 

Lance is pacing, glancing up every so often to see if Pidge has come out yet. Keith is a bit aways from him, eyes scanning the area. There’s a few places the group could be holed up in: the actual entrance building, fenced off from the area they awaited, then there was the wide expanse of city life behind them, and, the worst possible idea, an actual airplane.

His fears are squashed when he hears the best thing he’s heard in the last few weeks. Lance seems to agree, and they’re both running to the fence when they hear Pidge’s telltale voice.

“Hey, assholes!” she cries, sprinting towards them as they race to jump over the fence and to their friend. Keith is faster, and he’s partially blaming it on his pure, raw excitement coursing through his veins. He’s over the fence and is grateful to Lance when he hops back down to retrieve their bags, and probably to give Keith some time with his best friend.

He barely makes it five feet before Pidge is leaping into his arms, clinging to him desperately while Keith cradles her head and kisses her cheeks like a baby. She’s maybe crying a little bit, but Keith doesn’t mind her getting all snot-nosed and sappy around him. He’ll keep her secret.

“Holy shit,” he croaks, giving her another tight squeeze before letting her down gently. He recollects himself while Lance comes up behind him, tripping over his own feet. Despite this, he launches himself at the girl, who in turn wraps her arms around his neck and Lance is doing the same he was. Really, he’s doing _more,_ swinging her like a tether-ball and swaying left and right with her still in his arms. Keith wipes away the tears he didn’t know he had, picking up his backpack and letting the two finish up before she starts her onslaught of questioning.

“Holy fuck, guys! Jesus– you two are such– such–“

“Irresistible, handsome boys?” Lance offers, a grin on his face.

“Complete dicks!” she shrieks, previous joy filled with rage. “You made me and Hunk worry like a bunch of pansies, and just when I started thinking I’d have to go and save your whiny little butts, I get a fuckin’ signal from this piece of shit walkie _fucking_ talkie!” 

Keith looks down sheepishly at his boots, too happy to actually feel bad. “We just managed to evade the Galra literally a few hours. I’m sorry, Katie.”

The anger leaves her and she furrows her brows, rubbing at her temples before she lets out a huff. “I’m not mad, just– you both had all of us worried, even Shay.”

“Shay?” Lance inquires, shrugging on his backpack and following the girl back to the group’s base. 

“Oh, yeah! Sorry, you haven’t met her, she’s awesome. You’ll meet her when we get back.”

Keith nods and they continue forth, to reunite with their friends.

–

It’s not too long of a walk; twenty minutes later they find themselves in front of a dreary apartment building, glass shattered and scattered corpses about the front lawn. The scent of chlorine and guts fills the air, and Keith is more than happy when Pidge drags them inside.

He’s greeted with the pleasant sight of their friends sitting in the lounge, and a smile graces his lips when Hunk lets out a strangled sob and throws himself towards Lance. The Cuban does the same, crawling up Hunk like a baby and wrapping his lanky limbs around his friend. 

“Oh man, Lance!” Hunk cries, pressing a big kiss on his friend’s cheek and only lets out another noise of absolute joy when Lance does the same. “Jesus Christ, I thought you were— fuuck, dude! Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

Lance can only hum out a response, slinking out of Hunk’s arms and stepping out of Hunk’s loveable warpath. Keith doesn’t see it coming, because one moment he’s mumbling something about the weird smell and the next, he’s got a faceful of Hunk’s chest.

“Keith! Bud, I’m so glad you’re okay!” Keith can barely register this statement because the rampant, touch-starved adolescent in him only manages to lean into the hug. He nods quietly, and decides from then on that he loves Hunk hugs.

Of course, good things come to an end and he lets go, a wild grin on his face as he leads his two friends towards the rest of the group. Coran sits there patiently, a beaming smile on his face when he sees they’ve made it back. Beside him stands a rather tall girl, hair coiled tight in frizzy brown curls and a wonderfully gentle smile. Pretty brown skin compliments the shining white of her teeth and lovely amber eyes and Keith admits to himself he’d kill to be that gorgeous— and _buff._ The girl had biceps that would probably scare the Galra sooner than they’d try to pick a fight with her.

She’s all warmth and sunshine when she greets them, fingers fluttering in a tiny wave.

“Boys,” Coran says, leading the girl over to Lance and him, “I’d like you to meet Shay! She was apart of my group and ah, was the only one who made it.”

Keith does not press further and Shay gives him little time to dwell when her hand shoots out to shake his own. Keith might be a little lovestruck, no matter how gay he was.

“Hello! My name is Shay, and you’re Keith, right?” she says, all formality and awkward politeness; Keith decides he likes her. 

“And you must be Lance!” she exclaims, shaking his companion’s hand, “Hunk has told me much about you.”

Lance’s eyes slide over to Hunk, who’s got the most flushed look on his face, cheeks a deep red. “Told you a lot about me, huh?” he snickers, and Keith can’t keep up with the weird social cues.

“Yes! Hunk was very nice to me when we first met, I’m glad I get to meet his best friend!”

“Very nice? Oh, I’m sure he was!” Lance croons, all smiles and evil little grins. Hunk looks frozen, as if any wrong move and he’d shatter to pieces. 

Oh.

_Ooooooh._

Hunk’s newfound crush is both ironically similar to his own, and one hundred times cuter than his pathetic pining over Lance. He offers Hunk a smile, eyebrows turned up in condolences. Lance would never let him live this down. Hunk shrugs, and they are all pulled out of their own realizations when Lance speaks up.

“Coran,” he starts, awkwardly scratching his neck, “we really, _really_ need to talk.”

Two, three beats of silence pass before Coran sighs, gathering his bag and jerking his head towards the doors. “Well, Shay has the last– and only, might I add– car and we’re going to head back to headquarters. It’s quite a long drive, and we’re going to be going all the way to Utah. You can stay here, but...I’d feel better if you were with us, not going to lie here. So, are you coming?”

“Yeah, why not,” Lance replies, no real argument arising from the rest of the group.

“Well then, get your things. I’ll tell you whatever you want in the car.”

–

They’re lucky with their impeccable timing. When they’ve all gathered their things, the sun had begun to crawl over the horizon and the biters had started to wake. They’re quick to move into Shay’s truck, Hunk and Shay in the front seat while the rest of them crammed in the back. Pidge had taken to draping herself across both him and Lance’s laps, and so there they sat in a comfortable silence.

Mostly, anyways, aside from him and Lance wolfing down the fruit cups Shay had given them.

“It’s not much,” she had said with the most pleasant smile, handing Lance the packs of diced fruit, “but you two seem like you haven’t seen real food in a while, so I hope it’s enough for now.”

Needless to say, it was, and the two of them can’t get a word out until they’ve stuffed themselves full of fruit and sweet syrup.

Keith is the first to speak up, wiping his mouth with his shirt and managing a question. “Coran, is Voltron...well known?”

“In what way?” the man replies, looking over at him from the window seat. Keith shares his gaze,  
looking past Lance who was still slurping the last of the cup’s contents. 

“Well, when Lance and I were stuck in the house– y’know, where we holed up– there was this guy who kept patrolling past our house. I think he was apart of the group that attacked us to begin with, ‘cause he definitely saw us a few times. When we did leave, he helped us out by giving us the keys to the bike we escaped on. Man, wish we would’ve brought that…”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” Pidge mumbles from under his chin, pausing from braiding his hair, “they would’ve trailed us because those things are stupidly loud.”

“Yeah, I know. Anyways, this guy, he was saying that you guys owed them a favor? He was apart of something called “The Blade?””

“Any chance you catch his name?” Coran runs a hand along his mustache, sharing a look with Shay through the rear-view mirror. 

“Thace,” Lance pipes up, stretching his arms in front of him and fiddling with the ripped hole in Pidge’s jeans.

 _Note to self,_ Keith thinks, taking stock of the girl on his lap, _Get Pidge new pants._

“Gotcha,” Coran huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “well, he is one of the friendlies. Allies of Voltron, if you will, it’s just hard to contact them. He’s a spy for the Blade, if I recall. Oh, they’re actually called the Blade of Marmora. Nice fellows, really, just...better at their jobs than they admit. But I guess this means that we’ll be coming into contact with them real soon, eh?”

Keith nods, resting his chin on top of Pidge’s head. He’s very tired, beyond exhausted and they’ve got quite a ways before they get to Salt Lake City; Shay had mentioned it briefly as she went over the maps that it would take nearly six hours to arrive. They’ve gotten zero sleep since they executed their plan, and he can tell Lance was just as sleepy as he was.

So they nap. Keith’s eyes struggle to keep open, head lulling over Pidge when he feels a familiar weight fall on his shoulder. The raven-haired man does little to question it, and just remembers seeing the brown head of hair before he too, falls asleep.

– 

When Keith wakes up from his very pleasant nap, Pidge is shaking him awake. It’s no where near as nice as the deep sleep he was in earlier, and he can vaguely feel Lance drooling on his shoulder. He slaps Pidge’s hand away, eyelids heavy as he takes in his surroundings. The car is no longer moving, but life around them is. They’ve ended up at a military-esque base, groups moving around and even families enjoying civil life. It’s unsettling, and Keith can’t help that he’s a little wary.

They were the only ones in the car aside from Pidge outside the door. Lance still naps away on his shoulder, and Keith pokes his side before the Cuban springs awake.

“Huh, what?!” he spits out, reaching frantically for his rifle on the floor. Keith pushes him back in his seat, jerking his head towards the open door. 

“We’re here, you big dummy.”

Lance raises a delicate eyebrow but shrugs, stretching himself out and taking in their surroundings. The look on his face is obvious: the calm is strange, unfamiliar to them and he’s on his toes too.

After a few moments to gather their thoughts, they climb out the car and follow Pidge to the center of the base.

“Coran said this place is called Arus. Don’t ask me why or what it means, because honestly, I don’t have a clue,” she grumbles, yawning into her hand. “Hunk and the others are up there with Voltron’s leader, or whatever.”

Lance stifles a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood but Keith knows better. Having someone with you every second of your life for two weeks causes you to catch a few tells of their personality. Lance’s hands, specifically– Keith knows for a fact they flex whenever he’s nervous, trigger-finger being the one that moves the most if there’s no gun on it already. 

He’s just as antsy; Keith has never seen a place seemingly untouched by the ruin around them and the idea of calm is daunting in itself. Calm meant danger; he should know, after the fiasco in Barstow. But Pidge seems more relaxed, if not grumpy so he doesn’t feel nearly as bad as he should’ve.

Probably.

They reach the others and the first thing he notices is the tall, dark-skinned woman conversing with Coran. Her hair is strikingly white, tied up into a neat bun and she stands tall, radiant and powerful. She’s foreboding yet beautiful, similar to Shay but with less warmth and more serious. 

“Before you start,” Pidge barks, pointing an accusatory finger at Lance, “she will definitely kick your ass if you start flirting with her.”

“Duly noted,” Lance answers, hands held up in surrender, “Wasn’t really planning on it, anyways. She looks too much like my cousin.”

A few beats of silence and Pidge nods approvingly, and they rejoin their group. Keith catches the tail-end of their conversation, and he’s met with yet another accent: British (probably?) this time around. The two of them are discussing something about the groups they’ve sent out, and Keith remains quiet until Coran addresses them.

“And what about Sh–“

“Reconnaissance, as usual,” the woman cuts Coran off, arms crossed over her chest until her eyes slide over to the newcomers. She glances at Coran, who simply smiles and comes around behind them.

“Allura,” he says to the woman, pushing the pair forward. “I’d like you to meet Lance and Keith. They’re the two that were sleeping in the car when we came.”

An embarrassed heat crawls up Keith’s neck and he looks down, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. 

“The resident knife expert and the sharpshooter, right? Let me guess...the taller one– Lance, right– is the sharpshooter, and the long-haired one, Keith, is the knife enthusiast!” she exclaims, and when Keith looks at her again, she’s got a big grin on her face.

“Uh,” Lance fumbles out, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. How’d you figure?”

“You both have distinct eyes. Also, I can see your sniper.”

Lance snorts out a response, and Keith feels better around this Allura lady. She was nice enough, and seemed genuinely interested in their talents and just...them, really. Besides, if Pidge liked her, she was okay in his book.

“So, uh, what are we...what?” Keith grimaces at his awkwardness, but Allura lets out a laugh in response. 

“I haven’t much told any of you what the deal is, huh? We’d like to repay you, of course, for saving dear Coran’s life here. It seems you may need some medical attention, with that makeshift bandage you’ve got there, Keith,” she says, pointing at his wounded arm.

“Yeah, I got shot a while back.”

He winces at Pidge’s screech, who looks over at him with a furious gaze. “You fucking _what?”_

“Got...shot?”

“And didn’t tell me, you idiot?!”

He shrugs, and Pidge is still fuming when Allura speaks up again. “Judging by the fact that you’re moving around well enough, I’m assuming it wasn’t a terrible wound. At least it was in the arm and not anywhere important.”

Keith nods and from there, they’re whisked off to the medical bay. Keith is looked over and his arm is re-wrapped, and they are once again the group is brought to the base’s “town square”. It’s relatively calm, and gives them a chance to recuperate. 

Allura sits across from them, and he’s finding it very hard to focus when Lance’s hand is so dangerously close to his own on the table. But he strives and listens to Allura’s tale of the coming of Voltron.

“We came to be about two months after the outbreak. See, I was brought in the Los Angeles CDC from San Diego when the virus first spread as a lead microbiologist– virology, specifically– at the time. When we weren’t able to make any breaks with the existing research material we had, a lot of us were grouped up and sent to different quarantine stations to figure out the source, cause, and help anyone affected by it. I was lucky enough to be placed with Coran, one of the lead epidemiologists in the Los Angeles department, and we were both sent to the quarantine station in LA. It didn’t last very long though...the station broke down fast and we barely managed to make it out. From there, I tried to gather as much help as I could, finding anyone who was still able to assist me and bringing them together. We were a fairly large group at first, and a lot of them were incapable of actually fighting these things off. I lost a lot of them the first month of everything…

“It wasn’t until, I’d say January when I decided to settle and build a group to protect anyone still alive, and search for a cure. It was difficult at first, getting the word out about a barely stable resistance group against these things, but it worked. Now we’re here, and we have bases set up anywhere we can get them. Communication is difficult, and we haven’t gotten very far with any sort of cure especially with the Galra around. I refuse to test on unwilling subjects and everyone is careful enough either not to get bit, or not come back when they’re bit. It’s a bit difficult to get any samples from something that’s trying to eat you, believe it or not. And, ah, here we are. Coran has told me you’re an impressive bunch from what he’s seen?”

“I would hope so,” Hunk replies, obviously fascinated by her story. “It’s amazing what you’ve done here, especially with the amount of supplies you’ve managed. We haven’t seen anything like this...well, we’ve never seen anything like it.”

Allura chuckles, waving off the compliment with a toothy smile. “It’s not just me that’s done it, really. I just have an efficient way of running things. And that just rises my next offer– if you really want to, you’re welcome to join us. Any friend of Coran is a friend of mine, although I will say you have to get a crappy stick-and-poke tattoo in exchange.”

Lance laughs, and they settle into a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Until Lance shrieks and jabs his finger in Allura’s direction.

“Wait, wait, you said January, right?!” he exclaims, and the woman nods in bewilderment. “Hunk, buddy, you’re finally nineteen, dude!”

“Hooray?”

“And Pidge– Pidge! You’re like, 16!”

Pidge doesn’t make a sound, but then looks at the table in awe. “I’m _sixteen.”_

“Allura,” he says, looking back at the woman who’s stifling a laugh at their newfound information. “What month is it?”

“June, if I remember from this morning. I keep a planner.”

“Oh my fucking _god_ I turn twenty next month,” Lance whispers, gazing at his palms in awe. Which leaves Keith with the striking question of,

“How the hell are you the oldest one here?”

“Oh,” Lance glances up, cocking his eyebrow, “I entered school a year late, which is how I ended up with good ol’ Hunk. Aw, you’re 18? So little.”

“You’re barely older than me!”

“By like, a whole year. And then some. When’s your birthday?”

That shuts Keith up, who begins to awkwardly fiddle with his hands.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Lance says, turning to him and forcing Keith to look at him with a jerk of his chin. “You are not getting out of this one. Tell me.”

Keith grumbles in response, which earns a disapproving look from Lance. Then he gets those damn puppy-dog eyes, the same ones he used when he convinced Keith to take an extra shift so he could nap longer, and he lets out an aggravated huff.

“October 31st, asshole.”

Lance nods triumphantly, a grin on his face. A few moments pass, and then it finally hits the Cuban like a train. “Holy fuck. You were born on Halloween! That’s so– holy shit, that fits so well, dude, oh my _god!”_

Keith harrumphs and pointedly looks away from the laughing man, glancing up at Allura who stands up.

“Well, this was fun, but sadly, duty calls. My men just came back from reconnaissance, I’ll introduce them when I can. They’re the best of help.”

Keith nods, following her movement before he trails his sights back on Lance. He’s calmed down now, and he just looks so stupidly happy and stupidly handsome with the soft smile on his face as he leans against the table. How anyone could look so good, sweaty and covered in dust and bug bites with the ugly gash on his arm, he had no idea. It wasn’t fair, at all, Lance was too damn pretty– 

“You’re wrapped around his finger, dude,” Pidge snarks from behind him, and he whips his head around to see his friend looking at him with a mischievous grin. Keith scowls, looking purposefully angry at her while she prods at his shoulder.

“If I wasn’t a good samaritan, Pidge, I would’ve killed you by now,” Keith grumbles, casting out his gaze in the general direction of where Allura had gone off. She was talking to someone, from what he could tell.

“Good samaritan? Hah, barely!”

Man, whoever she was talking to looked creepily familiar. Like he was supposed to recognize this face, but something about the man’s whole image threw him off. Like the prosthetic– it looked really high tech, something way out of Keith’s comfort zone and something that Pidge would’ve liked to tinker with. 

“You’d probably kill all of us if you had the chance, man,” Lance resonates from beside him, but Keith isn’t listening now. He’s standing up.

He’s confused. His feet are dragging him closer towards this man and he can hear his friends call after him, then hear them step into line beside him. Keith wracked his brain, trying to figure out who the hell this was, why they looked so familiar but so unreal. The white forelock of hair, that powerful stance and even down to the chin. The only person he remembered that had features like that was his damn– 

...brother.

He feels his mind freeze but his feet keep going, and he can’t really feel Pidge’s hands steering him out of the way. But he has to get over there; he has to know.

White hair. His brother had very faint, but nonetheless focal vitiligo, that’d been slowly creeping up from his hairline in that patch making him look older than he was.

The chin. Keith’s adopted dad had the same strong jaw and chin that attracted more people in minutes than Keith did in his lifetime; of course his brother had that same chin.

The stance. He stood tall, because he was proud and had to be strong and powerful and he had to be _there_ for Keith. Keith was his baby brother, of course he’d be his protector.

He can kind of hear Pidge yelling at him to explain his motive. Pidge wouldn’t know; even if she had heard of Keith’s brother, she never _met_ the guy. That was Matt’s thing, and him and Matt were best friends. 

Best friends.

His brother.

God, he was so close now, all he had to do was grab him and deck him in the face for making him think he was dead for months. Keith never really stopped looking; he just never knew where to start. Yet here he was, flesh (mostly) and blood and the man couldn’t move a muscle.

Allura notices him first, head tilted in wonder. He’s just standing there, hands shaking and his throat feels so dry and numb. Lance’s hand meets his shoulder and he can feel it, bubbling out of his throat before the man before him turns around.

“Shiro?”

Violet meets brown, he’s crying, and suddenly everything he believed for the past month goes out the window when he rushes at his brother and throws his arms around him. Shiro’s hugging him too, and he can finally hear with a rush of noise and Shiro’s choked sob.

The vivid memory of his first meeting with Shiro plays over and over in his head, the young eight year old foster child shaking the sixteen year old’s hand and spitting “I hate you!” with so much venom in his words only an hour later, then crying about his future in the dead of the night, wrapped in Shiro’s quilt. He was safe.

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uploaded this at 3 am today, then deleted it, looked over it, and reuploaded :0 also kind of added a headcanon/explanation for shiros hair oopz
> 
> i had a lot of trouble with this chap. i rewrote good sized chunks (half of the entire fic at one point) bc i was pretty unsatisfied with how i was writing it. i sat my butt down on tuesday, wrote literally ALL day including checking for continuity, research (it might surprise some people that im researching as much as i can before i even consider writing something) and if it opened leeway to the coming plot points. this is what i ended up with! a 6k monster.
> 
> hope you enjoy it....a certain someone's reunion was really nice for me to write bc it let me be more flowery with my writing. this chapter in an entirety is pretty flowery. but yea!! things r gonna definitely pick up by the next chap ;)


	7. shiro knows too much and pidge sucks

Twenty minutes into snotty-nosed sobbing into his brother’s shoulder is when Keith pulls away. His eyes are bloodshot, still watery and his legs have gone numb from their awkward position on the ground. Shiro looks equally as distraught, and there’s millions of questions flying by their minds but they’re still reeling from shock. He doesn’t look real, like he’s an elaborate hallucination and he’s just been crying on the floor by himself. This doesn’t last; Keith’s hallucination is dispersed when Shiro presses a kiss to the top of his head, and memories of the same gesture flood through him and he’s fighting back tears.

Shiro smiles at him, eyes crinkled at the corners and he stands up. The man offers a hand and Keith takes it, legs shaking as he’s pulled to his feet. He finally takes notice of everyone else around them, including Pidge’s grin and Hunk’s giant, toothy smile. Keith lets his eyes trail up Lance, whose handsome, handsome face has the softest smile in the world, looking at the pair with such absolute happiness for them both, but Keith knows a little better. Lance would never admit it, but that smile held a bounce of envy for the spectacle. He mentally reminded himself to talk to the Cuban later.

“Hi, Katie,” Shiro croaks out, casting his gaze towards the brunette beside Hunk. “I doubt you recognize me, huh? Haven’t seen much of you since you were a tiny, little baby.”

“Shiro, right? You were best friends with–“ her smile cuts short and she pales, awkwardly twiddling with the hem of her shirt. Shiro is quick to notice, and offers a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

“How about we all talk after I get everything situated, okay?”

Pidge nods, tugging on Hunk’s sleeve and pulling them back towards the tables. Lance hesitates for a few moments, eyes darting between Shiro and Keith. Then Keith feels Lance’s hand on the crook of his neck, warm hand sending Keith’s heart beating a mile a minute, before he turns heel to leave.

“Oh, wait!” Shiro calls, lunging forward and spinning the man to look at him. Lance has the most bewildered expression, and he can barely manage a “what” before Shiro continues. “You’re one of Keith’s friends, yeah? What’s your name?”

“My name’s ah, Lance. And yeah, we’re friends.”

Keith isn’t sure what they are.

“Thank you, Lance,” Shiro says, a smile gracing his lips. “For taking care of Keith.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the Cuban coughs into his fist and awkwardly rubs at his neck. “Well, y’know. Just doin’ what I can.”

There’s another note of hesitation, and Shiro sticks out his hand to shake. Keith finds himself taken aback once more at the sight of his brother’s prosthetic; Lance looks just as freaked out by the entire situation. He glances from Shiro’s amber orbs and to the hand before him, then takes it, reflecting Shiro’s smile. Lance casts one last, longing look at Keith and turns back towards the tables. Keith lets go of the breath hitched in his throat.

“Soo…” Shiro drawls, eyes sliding mischievously to the Korean. “You and Lance, hm? We’ll talk about _that_ later.”

“Shut up and tell me where the hell you’ve been for the past seven months, you ass.”

“You never change, do you?”

– 

Shiro is introducing the area to Keith when he decides they should take a break and talk. They slump against an old Starbucks building and Keith takes in his surroundings. There are people everywhere, children even running around and kicking a ratty soccer ball. He can’t see the others anymore, but he does see Coran and Allura tending to other persons. 

“I tried finding you, you know,” Shiro begins, resting his head against the wall, “but it was hard. You were in California, I was here in Utah. A lot of the roads were closed off too, to prevent traffic for the quarantine buses, and before I knew it– well, we were stuck. Matt and I managed to get away with this guy named Slav and we were all holed up together for a while. Slav was...honestly, extremely annoying. I near kicked him out the first few weeks of knowing him. He did show up, eventually...saved Matt from a group of bandits while I was on a quick run. He’s a scientist, so him and Allura have been doing their thing.”

“Where _is_ Matt, anyways?” Keith asks, hand skimming along his now unsheathed dagger. Shiro grimaces, looking down at his prosthetic with a lost look in his eyes.

“I...I don’t know.” That gets Keith’s attention. “Something happened. Something really, really bad. It’s been a couple months since I’ve seen him.”

“What happened, Shiro? You can’t hide this from Pidge, either.”

His brother sighs, thrumming his fingers on his knee before taking a deep breath, and starting. “We met Allura four months ago while she was looking for new recruits. Slav and Matt were quick to trust her because of all their weird scientific babble, and I bonded with Shay ‘cause _damn,_ she knows how to fight. We helped Allura when she was first forming Voltron, and now we’re here. 

“Then we got word about some Galra moving in on the Kerberos camp not far from here. Matt volunteered our group to move in and reroute them before they could reach the camp, so we moved in. Our group split up into two groups, four of us going to the camp while the rest of us went after the Galra. Matt was one of the ones in the camp. At some point, we got far enough away that those assholes flipped the table on us. This is where it just got real bad, really fast. One of the guys– I was with the Galra group, Matt was at Kerberos– in my group worked for the Galra. Rolo, the guy, was a huge dick and ratted out our plan out to one of the Galra’s leaders. His partner Nyma was with Matt, and she was the one that triggered everything. We took Rolo and ran back to camp, but we got ambushed by the Galra. Me and a bunch of the other campers were… Jesus, Keith. It was bad.”

Keith puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to continue.”

“No, no,” Shiro says, running a hand through the white forelock, “I have to. We were taken to their camp and the things they’re doing there are absolutely _sick._ They’re trying to genetically enhance those monsters, Keith. Tryin’ to control them, make them act like they’re a bunch of dogs. The scariest part is that it works, they’re testing on people and brainwashing them. They forcefully infect people, just so they can use that person to make them into some kind of superhuman infected _thing._ We were lucky to not have become one of them.

When we got there, we were introduced to some fucker named Zarkon. He’s the worst, all he wants is power and he’s not afraid to pull whatever he wants to get that. He showed us their “entertainment”, and it’s just– they pit people against each other, like those dog-fighting rings. I saw a man get ripped apart by one of those Galra for a chance at _meeting_ Zarkon. Matt and I were apart of a group put in to fight, and...I couldn’t let them do that to him, Keith. I _couldn’t._ They were quick to focus on me after I practically maimed Matt, pretending like I wanted to fight more than he did. Matt figured it out, and I thought he was safe. The last time I saw him was in one of the bunkers, before they dragged him off in the middle of night. Fuck, Keith, he was talking about escaping, how he’s gotta find Katie and keep her safe. I– I kissed him, out of nowhere. I kissed him and that’s the last time I saw him. I’ve been looking for him since.”

Keith was quiet, arm wrapped around his brother’s shoulder as Shiro regained his senses. His breath was sharp, quick puffs of air as he tried not to panic at the thought of what could’ve happened to Matt. They sit there in silence, recollecting their thoughts and allowing Shiro time to calm. He finally lifts his head from his hands, offering a smile Keith’s way.

“Thanks, Keith. I’m glad you’re safe, now.”

“Any leads on Matt?”

“Nothing,” Shiro says, picking himself up off the ground. “I’m not going to stop looking.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Shiro chuckles, pulling his brother to his feet and stretching his arms. “Anyways...let’s continue. I wanna introduce you to Slav.”

A three minute walk and two guards later, Keith meets Slav. Keith decides that Slav somehow talks more than Lance does.

He first sees the man crouched on the ground with a mess of broken pens and scrabbled notes surrounding him. On the table before him sits even more binders of notes, and the man is mumbling about STDs and misfolded proteins and mutated rabies and Keith is very lost.

“Shiro!” Slav cries, peering past his skewed glasses, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “Sit, sit! Have you eaten? Can I take your blood? Did you come into contact with anything? Did you get bit, there’s at _least_ a sixty-seven percent chance that you’ve been bitten every time you come here, and I have some things I need to check against the infected variable group–“

“Don’t you mean “WZSD”, doc? Also, yeah, go ahead.”

“Don’t use that name you insipid conspiracist!” Slav cries, jumping forward to roll up Shiro’s sleeve when he sits and offers his forearm. “At least call it KD, you terrible man.”

“What?” Keith squeaks, awkwardly shuffling next to his brother. 

“Slav calls it Kalinago disease after the first reported case of cannibalism, or something. I call it “weird zombie shit disease”.” 

Keith guffaws in response.

He glances around and notes this the only area powered with electricity; an isolated room sits behind a glass wall, and “biohazards, DO NOT ENTER!!” is scrawled on the door with a red marker. Slav scampers over, lab coat hastily thrown on and plastic gloves on his hands. He’s got a towel and is furiously scrubbing the dirt and blood off of Shiro’s flesh arm before wiping it down with an alcohol wipe. Keith notes he looks mildly annoyed, but in an endearing way.

He’s midway stabbing his brother with a syringe before he takes notice of Keith again. “I’m drawing his blood so I can compare it to uninfected and infected animal samples. I can’t directly infect Shiro, he’d be riddled with toxoplasmosis and Creutzfeldt and all sorts of other horrible things by now.”

“No, I mean– What is going on at all? Are– are those rats?”

“I’m an immunologist. It’s hard to cure an infectious disease if you live in an apocalypse, and can only test things on rats and compare it to blood samples. Are you a doctor?”

“Um, no?”

“Then you won’t get a word I’m saying.”

Slav retracts the needle and runs off towards a tiny, clear fridge-thing (“That’s an incubator,” Shiro snickers, nudging Keith’s shoulder, “Don’t ask him if you can hatch chickens in it. He’ll threaten to infect you with yellow fever.”)

They’re there for another twenty or so minutes, watching Slav run in every corner of the room before he realizes the brothers are still in his workspace, and kicks them out. Shiro lets out a snort when the door is slammed in his face, and steers the Korean back in the direction of other affairs. 

It hits him how much time has passed in the day when he sees the bruising purple and blue skies hover above them. A soft sigh escapes him and he’s so absorbed in the sunset when Shiro taps his shoulder.

“I think we’re going to go find your friends, now. I have to talk to Katie, but first,” Keith is spun around and sat down on a lone bench, “you have to hold up your deal.”

“What deal?”

“Who’s Lance, and why are you so “I’d give him the entire world if I could” in love with him?”

“Don’t compare me to your shitty love tropes,” Keith spits, a furious blush sweeping over the expanse of his face. “I’m nothing like that!”

“Oh yeah? Then how come you’re practically swooning when he put his hand on your shoulder, of all things?”

“It was the neck and it was wonderful.”

“Aha!” Shiro cries, finger jabbing his nose and the other pointing wildly at Keith. “You just admitted it! That weird, sappy look in your eyes when I mentioned that, and that whole,” Shiro stops to clasp his hands together and sigh dreamily, eyes fluttering, ““it was wonderful!” thing! You look at him like he proposed to you with a puppy!”

“Shut up! Shut up! I am not in– I don’t love him!”

“Well, you’ve at least got a crush on him, and you can’t deny that. Aww, my baby brother’s got a crush on a boy!”

“I hate you and I wish you acted as serious in private as you do in public.”

Shiro chuckles, waving off the conversation and jerking his head towards the direction towards a group of houses. “I’m just messing with you. If you like him, you have my blessing. Now let’s go find your boyfriend.”

Keith slaps the back of his head, then follows.

– 

They rejoin the others in one of the houses Allura had led them to. Pidge is seated on the couch, Hunk across from her engaged in a very intense game of GoFish. Lance is not present at first, but after a few more minutes of settling on the loveseat, with his brother across from him in a recliner, Lance joins them, blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

He definitely tries to deny the way Lance’s eyes light up at the sight of Keith on the couch. The sun has begun to set, and most people have gone indoors by then. Keith stands up, earning looks from the others. The man rubs at his neck, eyes darting everywhere except Lance. He clears his throat, shuffling on his feet before mumbling out, “Uh, can we talk?”

Lance cocks his head slightly, regarding Keith carefully before he shrugs and beckons him towards the front door. “Yeah, okay.”

Keith follows behind the taller, and the two of them sit on the porch and gaze out at the reddened streets. The sun has nearly gone, and everything seems so real, so human– aside from the armed guards at the gates of the city.

“So, what’s up?” Lance asks, turning to look at the man before him. Keith shivers involuntarily, cooled summer air– and Lance’s deep, deep blue eyes boring holes into his skull– sending a chill up his spine. But this just makes things _worse,_ when Lance scoffs and throws the blanket around Keith’s shoulder. He’s grateful for the red warmth of the sun casting over them, effectively hiding the red of his ears. 

The sun is slowly creeping away, and Keith inhales deeply, and starts.

“Thank you,” he begins quietly, running his thumb along the knuckles of his hand, “for everything, I guess. Pidge hasn’t talked this much in a while, ‘cause it’s kind of hard to find something that you haven’t already talked about that doesn’t bring up something bad. She’s really easy-going around Hunk, and you put her at a lot of ease, too.”

“You act like you don’t do anything for her,” Lance murmurs, playing at his shoelaces. “She cares about you a lot, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Keith replies, “I know.”

Silence. Keith thinks, then continues on.

“Still, if it wasn’t for you, I would’ve never found Shiro. I know today has been absolutely wild, what with running away from the Galra, and then ending up with a camp that we’re both not used to, but...if I hadn’t gone with you, I probably would think my brother was dead. You’ve been a really big part of everything, even if it’s been, like, three weeks and you’re sometimes a big asshole.”

Lance chuckles, and Keith can feel their knees bumping against each other. It’s quiet, and night has rolled around. The stars are plentiful in the sky, stretching across waves and waves of black, and the vice grip around his chest relaxes. His heart feels like it could soar, far, far away into the night sky.

“I’ve always wanted to go into space,” Lance whispers, and stands up, offering his hand to Keith. “C’mon, let's get a better look.” 

The man looks at the outstretched hand, and takes it. Moments later, they’re lying on the road, on their backs, with the heavy flannel quilt draped over their shoulders. Keith thinks about their van they destroyed, and stifles a soft laugh. 

Lance’s eyes are blown wide open, eyes looking across the night sky with a content expression. Keith wants to gaze at the sky, but he thinks to himself, for his own ears only, that there’s something more beautiful beside him. 

He turns his head towards the sky when Lance mutters something about the constellations.

“As much as I liked space, I never learned about the stars much,” he says, hand gesturing vaguely towards the sky. “It’s flipped upwards, but that’s the Big Dipper, I think. That’s about all I know.”

“What do you know?” Keith asks, discreetly scooting closer to the Cuban.

“I know about oceans, and surfing. Can you swim?”

“Not really.”

“I’ll teach you, then,” Lance whispers, and his head falls to look at Keith. The other takes a moment to notice, before finally letting his gaze join Lance. He’s practically swimming in blue, but Lance looks like he’s dancing in a field of lavender. He hears a muffled gunshot ring out into the night, and the guards a bit aways scold whoever shot, telling him not to wake the kids. Keith chuckles.

Lance hasn’t left his gaze, and his eyes flutter before he’s sitting up. Keith freezes, worried that he did something wrong, then Lance crawls over his form. The quilt falls across Keith’s chest, but does nothing to muffle his aching, beating heart.

Lance is just staring at him from above, stars spread behind him like he’s a god and Keith almost whimpers because he is so, so beautiful. A brown, suede strap necklace slips from his shirt and his violet eyes focus on the tiny, blue lion dangling off of it. It’s so close, it would tickle at his nose if Lance got any closer.

He does. 

Keith’s breath hitches in his throat, and his eyes are staring up at the Cuban in such _wonder._ Lance is barely moving, but he can feel the other getting closer by the second. He hesitates, and Keith, unwilling to make a noise, rests his palms against Lance’s forearms. 

Lance’s lips twitch into a quick smile, then it’s all seriousness again as he leans into Keith. His lips are so inviting, and Keith finds his head tilting. God, fuck, this is happening, it’s so real. He’s going to kiss a boy in the dead of the night in an apocalypse because he deserves this, Keith deserves happiness.

Lance gives him his happiness.

They stare at each other for a moment longer, and Lance’s lips are hovering merely two inches away. Keith bites his lip, lets it go, and flutters his eyes closed. He can only feel now, feel Lance’s hot breath against his lips and they’re so _fucking close–_

“Keith, Lance!” a voice calls from the porch and Lance leaps back, falling on his ass with a yelp of pain. The door swings open to reveal Pidge, waving towards them. “Shiro says you guys really need to come back inside before you fall asleep out here.”

“C-Coming!” Lance squeaks, and Pidge closes the door. He’s panting, Keith notices, and the moonlight illuminates his face.

Lance’s face is a beet red, crimson at every inch of his face and he’s quivering. Keith is no different, curling the blanket around himself and tucking his knees into himself.

“Fuckin’ Pidge,” Keith whines, high and breathless. 

“Fuckin’ Pidge.”

Lance helps him up, and Keith tries not to act like he’s been swept off his feet. They go back inside, and join the others for a quick goodnight. He definitely notices how Lance is holding his hand, the entire time. Everyone else does, too.

Keith lets go and walks off towards the direction of the room Shiro mentioned was his. It’s when he’s opening the door, that a hand grabs his elbow and swings him around to face him.

Then, there’s a pair of lips pressed at the corner of his mouth and he sees Lance.

“Fuck,” the Cuban hisses, pulling away with a wicked smile on his face. “I missed.”

“Y-You did?” Keith elects to ignore the crack in his voice.

“I did,” Lance replies, and runs a hand through Keith’s hair. “I won’t miss next time, though. Is that okay?”

“More than okay.”

Lance is again flushed, and he turns heel with a quiet goodnight as he heads into his room. Keith nods, and opens the door, closing it behind him and slumping to his knees. He touches his lips, then where Lance kissed him, and an awkward noise escapes him.

“Fuuck,” he groans, and his hands are shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man this chapter was so loving. so sweet i loved writing it. shiro's a little ooc (also background shiro/matt not shallura im srry) but u cant be serious around ur lil bro. thats blasphemy... also omg so many new readers wtf??? im surprised anyone has read this honestly. also slav. hes real smart and im bad at writing him so pls forgive me for my awful science dialogue and slav characterizations...
> 
> ps. im gonna double update this week because i wont be able to update next week! ill be gone from the 9th-13th. i hope this tides you over, at least. ANNND this is the last soft chap for a while im sorry :(


	8. savin' bros, one galra camp at a time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *updates at 6 am*

A month passes by faster than Keith would like to admit.

Three things Keith has taken note of at his time at Voltron:  
1\. They have to earn their keep before Allura lets them go on missions and trips to recruit, gain alliances with other groups, and fight Galra. In the meantime, Shiro teaches them how to _really_ fight (Keith refuses to acknowledge the swell of pride at Shiro complementing Lance on his incredible marksmanship).  
2\. When Hunk is in a kitchen, he’s in his element. He’s taken Voltron’s dinner meals to the next level, with impeccable flavor and nutritional value. Hunk also starts dating Shay two weeks after knowing her.  
3\. Both he and Lance have avoided talking about the almost-kiss-if-it-wasn’t-for-Pidge, but somehow haven’t made it awkward. Keith does not accept that he is heavily pining after the Cuban.

Keith would like to mention, that the only reason they haven’t talked about it is because they’re both preoccupied. The last time he’s seen Lance was at the dinner table sharing a bowl of stale Honey Nut Cheerios. Even then, the most that happened was Lance kissing his knuckles and Keith’s little screech when he realized he was late to meet Shiro, kisses Lance’s temple, and runs off before he can regret it. That was about three days ago, and now everyone is gathered at the dining area.

Allura’s smile makes him uneasy, and Shiro’s massive grin makes him want to run away with his metaphorical tail between his legs. Pidge looks equally as bewildered, desperately avoiding the two’s gazes. 

“So, why’d you call us?” Lance voices, seating himself beside Keith as Hunk hovers over the taller. The two of them were pulled out of target practice, guns still slung across their backs and shoulders still stiff from their prolonged crouched positions. 

“You all have been apart of Voltron for some time, now. There’s two things we’d like to address,” Allura says, hands folded in front of her. “Both Shiro and I believe you’re ready to accompany the others on missions. You’ve shown excellent growth in your own talents, and we’ve agreed you all would work best on a team.”

“To pick up off that,” Shiro says, expression hardened, “you both will have to be able to work as a team, not just as people in a group. Allura and I think you’re easily capable enough to be one of the best forces we have against the Galra. So, we decided that I’d be the best to be...well, team leader.”

“Not fair,” Pidge grumbled, crossing her arms and huffing, “He’s gonna get all...apocalypse dad on us.”

“You act like he doesn’t already do that,” Keith snickers, tugging her stubby pigtail. It’d grown significantly longer since they met Hunk and Lance, enough that she could pull her hair into tiny poofs of pigtails. Keith, on the other hand, noticed his bangs growing too long for comfort and promptly trimmed them down with his dagger– of all things. But Lance, Lance’s hair growth was the best because he no longer had the right to make fun of Keith’s mullet when he had one himself.

Not that Keith was complaining. The almost-mullet looked good on him.

“I’m not rushing or anything, buuuut, what’s the second thing you need?” Hunk asked, indicating to the heavy rifle on his back. “I still gotta get this baby adjusted, y’know.”

“You’ll have to prolong that target practice, boys,” Allura comments, and Keith looks at Lance, who visibly pales.

“Oh, no,” Lance whimpers.

“Oh, yes!” Allura says, and claps her hands gleefully. “You’re all getting your tattoos today!”

“No, no, no, NO!” Pidge shrieks, and attempts to run away only to be scooped up by Shiro. “Let me down, you devil! I can’t believe you, I’ll kill you in your sleep! I’ll stab you, Shiro, put me down! I hate needles!”

“Pidge, you’re the one who talked about it last week.”

“As a joke, you– you horrible apocalypse dad! I hope you rot in hell!”

“You’ll be coming with me if you keep this up, you know.”

Keith’s almost managed to make it out when something yanks the back of his shirt and he’s sent tumbling back into his seat. Allura stands before him, arms crossed and a disapproving expression plastered on her face. She somehow makes the beautiful-when-angry thing happen, and it makes Keith want to sprint his intimidated gay ass to the hills and live his life as a nomad.

“How bad could it be?” Lance voices, shrugging and cracking his knuckles. “It’ll be cool, too. Lets us know we’re apart of somethin’.”

It’s a nice sentiment, sure, and Keith holds out on the fact that it, hopefully, won’t hurt so bad.

Pidge demolishes all hope when she begrudgingly follows Shiro to Slav’s building, is pulled into a room adjoining Slav’s room, and immediately starts screeching and clawing at his brother. It takes Hunk’s soothing words, Keith wrapped like a koala around her legs, and Lance holding her arms in place for them to even _sterilize_ the area. Then comes Pidge’s fake confidence, how it won’t even hurt that bad and that they’re just a bunch of pansies. Keith is glad he’s learned to differentiate when Pidge is faking her mood, because she immediately starts wailing and thrashing when the needle makes contact. Shiro looks like _he’s_ going to cry, putting a tattoo tiny sixteen year old girl and gently wipes her tears like the true apocalypse dad he is.

They take a break after that, which consists of Pidge curled up beside Shiro and softly whispering, “I hate you, this tattoo looks sick, but I hate you.” 

Lance is up next, and Shiro goes off to replace the needle and autoclave the gun in Slav’s office. That’s when Lance starts to freak out, leg bouncing incessantly on the marbled floors. His arm is gripping the chair like a vice, and Keith scolds himself for checking out his biceps instead of comforting the Cuban.

Lance is significantly calmer when they actually start tattooing, though— he says that it’s no worse than getting scratched by a cat and strides off easily.

Then comes Hunk, who is very desperately trying not to freak out, and Keith wants to hug him. Lance cuts to the chase, and deliberately distracts the Samoan man by singing R. Kelly’s “Ignition” (“Not just “Ignition”, Keith!” he cries, “It’s the _remix to Ignition! Hot and fresh out the kitchen!”)._ Hunk laughs so hard that he’s crying, and doesn’t even realize that the tattoo is on until Shiro pats his arm with a gentle, “You did well.”

Lance complains he didn’t get a compliment. Shiro pats his head and the Cuban instantly brightens. 

Finally, it’s Keith’s turn. He’s trying to act completely chill, like he’s not going to get a tattoo and that his own brother, who has no experience with ink is going to give him one. There’s a million thoughts racing in his head: _"Is the needle sterile? Will the ink give me an STD? Will I spasm or something, and ruin the tattoo? Will I just have a giant line across my forearm because I couldn’t stay still because I just wanted to run? Why am I so paranoid about getting a “V” tattooed on my wrist?”_

Shiro notices the discomfort, of course, and offers a pitiful smile. “It’ll be quick.”

Keith doesn’t get a word out because of Lance, really, who starts yelling, “Keith! Too scared to get a tat, buddy?”

The teen growls in response, clutching the chair to prevent him from springing up and inciting an argument. “I’m not scared! You almost cried while you were waiting for Shiro to clean the needle, you dick!”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t freaking out when he put the tattoo on me!” There’s a faint burn on his arm. Keith ignores it to yell at the Cuban more.

“I’m not freaking out, needles are just– freaky!”

“You’re freaky!”

“You– I don’t like that insinuation!”

“It’s not an insinuation if I say it outright, you big dummy!” Lance hisses, crouching eye-level to the Korean. Keith is practically snarling, lips curled up in anger. Pidge coughs into her fist, unable to mask her snort of laughter.

“Oh, and what’s the deal with you now?!” Keith growls, whipping his head to confront the teenager. His arms still haven’t moved.

“Nothing, sheesh! You two argue like an old married couple,” she bites, hands on her hips. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Hunk and I are gonna go help Allura fix some flashlights.”

“Get back here, you evil little gremlin!” Keith yowls, and is ready to demand allowance to chase after her when he notices Shiro’s long gone, and there’s cling film wrapped around his throbbing wrist. 

“Take that stuff off after a few hours, and ask Coran for some lotion, and whatever you do, don’t ask him about his lotions. Just take it and leave.”

Keith nods dumbly, staring at the tattoo before he’s dragged off with Lance for, what he calls, “a quick training match between us hotties to impress the ladies, amiright?!”

Lance is holding his hand the entire way.

– 

“Wait, wait, you _found Matt?!”_ Pidge shrieks, jumping up from the dining table, mouth full of rice and beans (courtesy of Hunk). 

“I know of his last known location,” Shay squeaks, cradling her injured arm to her chest. Hunk is frantically trying to whisk her off to the med bay, but not before she relays the news to Pidge. She looks exhausted, but that isn’t surprising considering she’d come back from a week long rebellion against the Galra. Her and her brother (who Keith met shortly after he returned from a reconnaissance mission) had teamed up with a small group hidden away in the mountains of Shoshone Falls Park, where they reclaimed the area and managed to gain information on a group of prisoners based in Rock Springs, Wyoming.  
“I’m not saying he’s still there,” Shay clarifies, beginning to back away to join her group in the infirmary, “but it’s worth a shot. If he’s not there, you can probably pick off a map and figure it out from there.” With that, the girl headed out with Hunk towards the medical bay.

Keith huffed, turning back to his meal with a disgruntled expression. This was the first lead they’ve gotten in weeks; time flew by faster than he realized. Before he knew it, Lance’s birthday had passed and the heat of August rolled over them in the Rockies (Keith would like to mention that _no,_ he didn’t forget Lance’s birthday. Pidge and Keith hacked through a group of biters in a store accurately titled “Guns ‘R’ Us” to get him, quite literally, a duffel bag of whatever the fuck they could steal. Lance was ecstatic over, and he quotes directly, “This– this suppressor with that damn loud-ass Tavor, holy fuck, Keith– and holy, holy shit, a Nightforce scope, fuck, Keith, I’m literally gonna just suck your dick, right here, Pidge don’t make that face on me, fuuuuuck this is going to look _so_ good on my Creedmoor.”)

And now they were here, two months as members of Voltron. Most of the time, they were kept in the Utah area as none of them had any real experience working as a group. Missions were kept to recon, handling strangers and bandits, and more often than not protecting their own, because Camp Arus had very friendly members that liked to let just about anyone in, good or bad.

They’d gotten into a few accidents, before. The worst was when some sick fuck managed to sneak past the walls and act as if he was a normal member. It wasn’t until a tiny nine-year old named Jeanine, who Keith knew because of her kind mothers and impressive reflexes, pointing out his lack of tattoo. It all went to hell; Jeanine was swept up and held hostage, and had it not been for Keith’s obnoxious distraction and Lance’s shot from the office building’s rooftop, it would’ve gone much worse.

Allura keeps a tight security, now-a-days.

“Geez,” a familiar voice scoffs from behind him, and sits beside Keith at the wooden table. “You guys are chipper this morning.”

“Shay got word about Matt,” Pidge mutters, finishing her dinner and waving goodbye to them. “Lance, I’m stealing your maps.”

“Put them back when you’re done, or I’ll suffocate you in your sleep,” Lance shoots back, and with that, she turns heel back to their shared abode.

They sit comfortably together, quiet as they finish their breakfast. It’s a no-brainer that Shiro’s going to regroup them to discuss their mission tomorrow; off to one of the nearby camps who’re currently in hiding, due to the sudden influx of walkers. It would take a lot of effort, and Keith wanted to get some practice in before they headed out.

“Sooo,” Lance speaks up, absently picking at the remains of his breakfast. “We’ve got that thing tomorrow, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Keith mutters, sparing a glimpse at Lance. He looks a little floaty, and keeps rolling his shoulder. “...You okay?”

“Huh? Oh, kind of,” he replies, placing a hand on his shoulders. “You know how I’m ambidextrous, right?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I’ve been practicing a lot of switches on my own, so I can learn to handle my rifle on both arms if something happens to the other, but man, I’m getting some serious kickback. Shoulder’s been hurting really fuckin’ badly.”

Keith stared at the man’s profile, all sharp edges that screamed _Look at me, I’m handsome!_ and somehow so tender all at once. His palm was still pressed into the corded expanse of back muscle, and god Lance had gotten so damn _fine_ in their time there. He couldn’t help the hand that started drifting towards his back, really, because he only noticed it was moving when Lance awkwardly fumbles out, “Hey, uh, Keith?”

“Hm?”

“...You’re kind of squeezin’ my shoulder there, buddy. A little painfully.”

“Oh,” Keith squeaks, “I was just– I was– ...do you want me to massage it?”

“...O-okay?”

Keith spends their remaining time digging his thumbs into Lance’s shoulders before duty calls, and they’re both off to train.

They still haven’t talked about it.

–

“We’re going after Matt.”

“Okay, cool,” Hunk mumbles, preoccupied with the walkie talkie in his hands before whipping his head up. “Wait, _what?”_

“Coran’s group is willing to fill in for us down at the Balmera camp, but Allura says that we should go after that Galra group.”

“I just don’t get why they took Matt,” Pidge mumbles, looking down at the maps sprawled across the table. They’d all met up shortly before dawn to configure tomorrow’s positions across the camp, but now they were planning on a potential rescue mission.

“Matt’s smart, but he’s not a doctor,” Shiro says, and looks down at his prosthetic arm. “I don’t know if it has something to do with this thing, but I don’t want to find out.”

“Hold on, guys, slow down!” Lance cries, stabbing his finger at the Wyoming map. “Jesus, can we– can we talk about this? We’re going straight into Galra territory here, guys. This isn’t a drill, this isn’t fighting off some assholes in someone else’s camp. We’re going right into their camp, and from the looks of what Shay told us, it’s not going to be easy. We can’t just– we can’t just jump in and expect everything to go right!”

“You make it seem like you don’t want to help,” Pidge utters, and Keith can see the fists gripping at her side. She’s angry, and things will go very bad, very fast if the situation isn’t calmed down.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help,” Lance clarifies, tapping the map, “But this– this whole situation is a dumb idea. None of us, not even Allura, have tried waltzing through Galra territory like it’s a fucking walk in the park. I want to go after Matt as much as you do, but jesus shit Pidge, how do you expect to rescue him if you’re dead?!”

“That’s why– fuck, you aren’t listening to me! Can you stop being such a self-absorbent piece of shit and listen to me for once? We– we sneak up them, it’s not like we need to take out the whole camp!”

This was bad. Pidge was up on her feet and Lance had moved to point his finger accusingly at the girl. 

“How do you expect to sneak up on the Galra when those assholes are always a step ahead of us?! For all we know, it’s a trap!”

“It’s worth a shot, dammit! I’m not gonna let Matt get away again!” Pidge shrieks, fury in her stance and face an angry red.

“And I’m not letting you get killed by some Galra fuck, Katie!” Lance retorts, snatching the map of Wyoming. 

“Both of you, calm down,” Shiro pleads, placing a hand on Pidge’s shoulder. She’s quick to slap it away, and turns her anger on him. 

“Calm down? Calm _down?!_ My brother is out there and Lance is acting like a paranoid ass! I don’t care if it’s a trap, at least I can die knowing I fucking _tried!”_

“You two are both acting completely nuts!” Hunk cries, wincing when Pidge reels on him. “How can we expect any of this to work if you two are just arguing about it?!”

“If Lance would get it through his tiny brain that this is a chance to save not only Matt, but probably a bunch of other people who could help us–”

“You’d rather go on some potential lead about him then wait for an actual chance?! This is literally a trap we’re walking right into, and we’ll all end up with a bullet through our heads unless we do this the right way!” Lance screeches, fists gripped into his jeans and eyebrows furrowed deeply.

“Lance, c’mon–” Keith croaks, placing a hand on his chest to calm the taller. 

“I’m trying to save my brother here, Lance!” Pidge screams, grabbing at her hair in frustration.

“And I’m trying to save all of us!”

The words leave the teenager before she can really think. “Jesus fucking _Christ!_ I’ve got fucking family left to save! You’d get it if you did too!”

It’s quiet. Blood is pounding in Keith’s skull and he sees Pidge’s face fall in horror in realization. Her hands leave her hair and she reaches a quivering hand towards the Cuban. Keith has half a mind to say something, but he can’t. It’s not his place.

“Lance, I-I didn’t mean–“

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ Let–- just let me fucking think, for god’s sake,” Lance whimpers, puffs of air escaping him. He looks so distraught, so damn broken and horribly exhausted. “Just– sit down, Katie.”

She does so, quietly, head hanging in shame as she looks at the table. The rest of them sit awkwardly, and all watch Lance in anticipation. With baited breath they wait, watching Lance as he paces, then finally slams the map back onto the coffee table. Hunk cringes, Keith jumps, Shiro stares, and Pidge is unmoving.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it the right way,” Lance grumbles, dragging his backpack over and uncapping a red marker between his teeth. “No sneaking in, none of that shit– we only need one of them to tell us everything we need.”

“How do you figure?” Shiro questions, leaning closer to the map. 

“I’ve hidden out in a Galra camp before. S’how I ended up getting those burns on my back. I thought I could trust them when I was on my own for a bit, and guess what, I couldn’t. Besides, those guys are huge pansies. They can’t keep secrets for long enough– you just gotta know how to break them.”

The statement sends a chilling shiver up Keith’s spine. He’s still on edge, afraid of saying something that could spark another argument. So he focuses on the task at hand.

“So, how do you propose we get that one guy?”

“Simple, really. They patrol on their own, remember? We just gotta figure out their patrol patterns before we move in.”

“Which means…?”

“We go tonight.”

–

They’re in the car by the time the sun’s starting to set. Lance vehemently refuses on bringing any extra ammo, saying it will only prove detrimental if they get robbed or worse, killed. Instead, he brings a backpack that’s meant to carry medical aid and a few extra magazines. The rest of them are set to leave quickly, and they’re on the road with a tearful goodbye from Coran and a well wishes from Allura. 

Keith wraps Jeanine before he leaves, and promises that when he came back, he’d teach her how to flip open a switchblade. Her mom laughs in response, and with that, they’re off.

Pidge is quiet, leaning against the window and as far away from Lance as possible. She obviously still feels horrible, and they’d had little time to talk before it was time to leave.

The plan was simple in theory: torture some dude for information, sneak into the camp, hopefully save Matt and the other prisoners, and make it out alive. Lance was still adamant about the idea, but Keith wasn’t disagreeing with him– saving Matt would be far from a walk in the park.

More like a walk across the sand. In the ocean. With jellyfish, probably, and sharks. 

Keith shivers.

“Lance,” he hears quietly, and pretends not to be eavesdropping. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s no big deal,” the Cuban mutters, tracing his hand along the old, old scar from when they’d all first met. It’s hard to believe that the scar had been on there for three months, now. Ten months of the shithole that was the apocalypse.

“It is a big deal,” Pidge insists, and Keith sees her turn to face him in his peripheral. “I was a jerk, jumping to conclusions and not listening to you. You were right, I was unprepared for this and I had no idea where to start. You didn’t deserve what I said, and I’m sorry.”

Lance is silent, then a sigh escapes him and he rubs at his neck. “It’s okay, I forgive you. I was a big asshole too, yelling at you out of nowhere.”

“Guess we’re both dicks, huh?”

“Yup.”

They share a quiet laughter, and for the next three hours in their drive, Keith is brave enough to rest his head against Lance’s shoulder. Lance presses the faintest of kisses to his head, and things are okay again.

For now.

– 

They reach Rocksprings and park outside the city, keys tucked into Shiro’s pocket for safekeeping. The sun had set, and night was beginning to creep on them. The presence of Galra was almost immediately spotted; Lance had ducked them behind one of the houses as the sound of laughter rung out in the streets. Smoke filled the sky, and faint conversation could be heard.

Keith peered into the street, stooped low as he scanned the area. The only potential victim he spotted was the lone man smoking a cigarette in front of the Walmart Supercenter across the street. If he could sneak around the parking lot and drag him into the Walmart, they’d be far away enough to be able to muffle any screaming.

That thought shocks Keith, as he lets the others know of his plan and creeps towards the abandoned cars in the lot. A few stilled biters are there, absolutely unaware of their surroundings and Keith deems them no threat. But the fact that torture was nowhere near the worst of what he’d seen worries him; he’s (almost) nineteen and extracting information through unconventional methods is like breathing to him.

He would’ve had an existential crisis about it, if he wasn’t too preoccupied with his task at hand. Which was dragging the thrashing man, arm wrapped around his throat into the empty Walmart. Keith hisses lowly in his ear, “If you make one sound I’ll cut your throat out,” and signals the others to come in.

The man makes no sound, instead nodding rapidly as he’s thrown haphazardly to the floor. Lance is quick to aim his sniper at the man, raising an eyebrow as the man scrabbles to sit up.

“Now,” Keith whispers, brandishing his machete and dragging the edge across the man’s neck, enough to cause pressure. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. What’s your name?”

“I won’t tell you anything! Long live the Galra!” the man bites out, but still quiet enough that he won’t be heard. Keith can practically hear the man’s heart pounding in his chest he was so scared.

“Man, these guys are all so weird,” Hunk comments absently, standing guard at the door and chuckling under his breath.

“Look, we really don’t have much time. Tell me your name, whether you’ve got any prisoners, and when you plan on leaving this place,” Keith mutters, pressing the machete further. 

“Hah, good luck getting anything out of me! Morvok is loyal to Zarkon!”

“Jesus fuck, what’s with the weird names,” Pidge hisses, and takes a knee beside the newly-named Morvok. “Just tell us, dude. This is gonna get really bad really fast if you don’t.”

“As if you’ll be able to do anything! You’re just a little girl!”

The teenager’s expression is blank, and she takes a glance between the others before waving at Keith. “Cover his mouth.”

Keith nods, stripping himself of the bandanna around his neck and stuffing it into Morvok’s mouth. Before the man can even question it, Pidge has a switchblade dug through his thigh. The bandanna muffles his shriek of pain, and it doesn’t take long before he’s begging for forgiveness.

“Please, please, I’ll tell you anything!” he whimpers, wincing when Pidge pulls out the blade. Quietly, he begins. 

“We’re only carrying four prisoners, but Zarkon has them top priority! That’s why so many of us were sent on a simple cargo drop. We leave tomorrow and from there, I swear, I don’t know what’s happening!”

Keith nods, and they all exchange a glance. “We won’t have time to wait, this has to go down now.”

Lance huffs, and turns back to check outside. No one had patrolled down their street yet, but an unusual amount of guards stood at the front door of a tiny house. “Bingo,” he whispers, and relays his findings.

“We can go through the back,” Pidge states, noting the distinct lack of guards hanging by the back doors. “There’s bound to be a lot of them, so we’ll need someone to keep watch up front in case anything goes bad.”

“I can do it,” Hunk says, gesturing to his butcher knife. “I shouldn’t need my gun.”

“Good,” Shiro says, and points towards the general direction of the house. “We’ll need to be real quiet, and get out as fast as we can. We get the prisoners, then we book it out of there. No messing around, no sticking behind to fight– that means you, Keith.”

Keith scoffs, but turns his attention back to Lance. The Cuban is rummaging through the backpack, and after a few moments, procures a roll of glittery, purple duct tape. “Allura gave it to me,” he says proudly, and sets to work on Morvok. Minutes later, the man is bound by purple duct tape and their plan sets forth in motion.

It’s laughably easy to sneak past the Galra and take out the single guard at the back door; Shiro is quick to incapacitate the Galra by knocking him out with a right hook from his prosthetic (“It’s like a pistol whip, but with your arm.” “Shut up, Keith, and get in the damn house.”)

They creep inside, and Pidge is the first up. There’s a single guard leaning against the kitchen doorway, a yawn escaping him. That yawn is cut short of course, when Pidge leaps forward and kicks his legs out underneath him, and wraps an arm around his neck in a vice grip. Slowly but surely, he passes out and Shiro takes watch by the back door, while the rest of them move upstairs to the rooms.

It’s easy to spot where the prisoners were being kept; two guards stood at the end of the hall, facing towards the inside of the room. Lance jerks his head towards the bathroom, and they duck behind a wall when the guard starts moving towards them.

“Where’re you goin’?” the man at the door calls.

“Bathroom. Gonna try to scavenge somethin’, at least.”

Doorman laughs and Bathroomboy barely makes it two feet into the bathroom before Keith starts choking the poor guy out. But sadly, his foot makes a thump against the tile floor and Doorman’s obviously heard it.

“You good, bro?” he calls, footsteps nearing them. Lance is quick to act, and grips the back of the guy’s head the moment he spots him and slams his head against the bathroom counter. It’s enough to knock him out, and quickly, they move towards the room.

Pidge is the first to see him, slumped over and breathing heavily but still alive. His hair was long, brushing past his jawline and there’s a split across his temple, presumably courtesy of Galra. But it was definitely Matt, save for the glasses he always kept perched on his nose. 

She chokes back a sob and moves towards him immediately, and Keith takes stock of the prisoners. Three other people lay slumped beside him, but to Keith’s horror, he can only see the bullet holes lodged into the two beside Matt.

“Fucker lied,” Lance utters, gripping Keith’s wrist.

Pidge is on Matt in an instant, tossing his head frantically in her hands as if she was in disbelief. He’s slow, barely responsive as his eyes trail to meet the emeralds of Pidge’s. He seemed to snap awake, and pulled at the handcuffs behind his back.

“K-Katie?” he whispers, and Pidge lunges forward and wraps him into a hug. He’s openly crying, head tucked into her neck as he revels in the joy that was his baby sister. Keith felt awful having to break apart the moment.

“We don’t have much time, guys,” he says, and watches as Matt stands to his feet. There’s a bout of adrenaline there, and they need to get out before he either collapses, or passes out. Then there’s the issue of the other prisoner, who hasn’t said a word.

“...Thace?” Lance utters, turning the man’s face to look at him properly. Lo and behold was Thace, who looks worn-out beyond all belief. But he’s there, and the sight of him is a little harrowing– who knows what had happened to them during the time they were gone.

“Voltron,” Thace huffs in response, and gratefully accepts Lance’s hands as they lift him to his feet. “I suppose your debt is repaid.”

“That it is,” the Cuban responds, and waves Keith over. “Thanks for helping us all that time ago. We’re here to save you guys, but we have to skedaddle before they figure somethin’ is up.”

Keith, in turn, wanders over to the fallen Galra and searches them for some kind of key. It’s their lucky day, it seems, and they move fast to unlock the handcuffs and get them to Shiro. Shiro, of course, hides his absolute delight at the sight of Matt and wraps him in a giant hug. “Your hair is ridiculous,” he mumbles, pulling back to look at him further. 

“And you look like you’ve seen better days, old man.”

Shiro chuckles, and Lance butts in with a quiet, “C’mon, reunion when we get in the car.”

It’s a miracle, but somehow, they do it. Morvok never crosses their mind as they tumble back into the minivan and travel as far as they can away from Wyoming. It’s tough, and they’re all so exhausted but Shiro can’t pull over until they’ve reached camp.

Keith does notice a lot of things, like the look in his eyes when he looks at Matt in the passenger’s seat, Pidge tucked into his lap and softly crying into his chest. He also notices the spacey look in Thace’s eyes, like how he’s in shock about the whole situation. Hunk asks him if he has anyone to go back to.

“Yes,” Thace answers, quiet as he rubs his hands nervously, “at least, I hope I do. If not, I have the Blade.”

“Who’s the special someone?” Lance croons, which earns a chuckle from the man in question.

“Ulaz.”

They leave it at that.

– 

A trip to the medic bay allows for the two prisoners to recuperate and fill Allura in on their experiences. She was wary to trust them at first, noting the hardened expressions but after a bit of coaxing, she was convinced of their safety. Thace is the first to speak, as Shay nurses the various bruises and cuts on his face, arms, and chest.

“I got caught helping those two escape from our camp,” he begins, wincing when a splash of alcohol hits his arm. “They didn’t say anything, at first. Just strung me along and tried to convince me that they hadn’t had a single clue. I knew better, and planned my escape a week or so after. There was a specific camp I had in mind, one of the Blade’s nearby our position that I could hide in for the time being.

I never even made it past the Galra campsite, before the whole group had me cornered. I was sent back to the camp that Zarkon previously resided in, and he decided I’m better off in the...entertainment portion for the Galra. I fought for a long time, and it was only recently I learned that Zarkon had relocated, and we were headed there for some sort of testing. One of Zarkon’s scientists, Haggar, said we were the best suited for a new strain of the virus she’d developed. We were sent there on our deathbeds in order to become one of those...infected. Then, here we are now. We would’ve been gone tomorrow morning had it not been for your quick acting, and I thank you.”

“Is that all you know of the new strain?” Allura asks, thrumming her fingers against her leg. “If it’s that strange mutation you were talking about Shiro, this could be very bad if it proves successful. It could spell trouble for many people already struggling against the infected.”

“Supposedly,” Matt croaks, looking up from Shay bandaging his arm. “It’s supposed to be some sort super-virus or something. It’s meant to amplify the effects of the original virus so that not only are they hungrier, but they’re faster and way more resilient. I’d only heard of it because of some connections I had in the tournaments, but Haggar hasn’t been able to actually make something that works. Until now, I’d just assumed it would never work. Guess I was wrong.”

Allura nods thoughtfully, and gracefully thanks them for their help and welcomes Matt into Voltron as soon as he desires. Thace comments on getting into contact with the Blade as soon as possible, and stalks out of the med bay behind Allura to discuss locations.

Pidge is quiet, leaning against Matt’s bedside with Shiro. The two of them are simply enjoying his company, and she’s desperately hiding her sniffles from her brother. Matt turns his attention on them and smiles, exchanging quiet conversation. The rest of them take it as their cue to leave, and depart with good wishes and back towards the houses.

“Sorry, guys,” Hunk says, turning away from them as they near their own home. “I gotta go wait for Shay by the dining hall. We’re gonna spend some time together, so don’t wait up for me.”

“I can’t believe you’re cheating on me,” Lance cries, hand clasped over his heart. “Tell Shay I said hi, and that I love her more than she loves you, probably.”

“I really doubt it, but will do. Good night, Lance, Keith.”

“Night, bud! I love youuuu!” Lance calls after him, after a quick hug. Keith waves him goodbye, and like that, he is gone.

They walk back to the house in silence, both exhausted and ready to succumb to the sweet embrace of sleep. The day was long, and neither of them are too excited for what’s to come. Keith is well aware they’re waging a war here; no one would be safe, soon enough, and their utopia would eventually come crashing down.

But Keith didn’t want to think about that. He does want to think about Lance’s hand brushing against the back of his own, and makes the brave move to lace their fingers together. It’s comforting, and they hold hands all the way back until they reach their rooms.

It doesn’t really stop there, though. Lance is reluctant when Keith tries to pull away.

“You okay, Lance?” Keith murmurs, squeezing his hand with comfort.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Lance spits out, cheeks a resilient, red hot as his navy blue eyes bore into Keith’s own violet. There’s a hanging silence, and the question is answered when Keith drags him to his room and the response is immediate. They crawl into bed together, limbs aching and the both of them struggle to remove their clothing while they’re laying out in a bed. But soon they’re left in just their boxers, Keith in a black tank top and Lance in his ratty baseball tee. 

They simply soak in each other’s presence, limbs wrapped around each other as Lance tucks his head against Keith’s chest. All there is is silence.

Lance makes the first move, of course. It’s a dragging against his jawline, then he’s leaning over him again and their teeth clack when they surge forward for a kiss. It’s all too messy, too fumbling and awkward as they maneuver around each other curiously. Lance is craning his neck to meet him, and Keith’s head is uncomfortably tilted due to its slight elevation, and their teeth keep hitting against each other.

When they finally get it right, it’s mind-numbingly perfect. Lance’s lips fit against his own like they’re meant to be, soft and all too sweet against Keith’s own. They don’t waste time when Keith slips his tongue across Lance’s and they’re both in too deep. They should be talking, talking about whatever the hell their relationship was but they’re too busy kissing the life out of each other. 

They’re fervent, hungry for more like the sex-deprived guys they are and Keith finds his hands skimming across the sweaty, corded muscles of Lance’s back. He’s so dangerously close, and Lance is tugging him closer, pushing himself in between his legs. It’s so unbearably hot, the way Lance rolls himself against his hips, once, twice, and _ohhh fuck,_ Keith is so fucking gone.

Keith can’t really focus when the Cuban starts letting his hands roam, running his hands along Keith’s abs and letting his fingers linger across the hem of his boxers, then slowly, slowly running his hands along his thighs. He isn’t sure when Lance started mouthing at his neck, leaving bruising red hickies in his wake but he decides it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. Like the competitive spirit he is, Keith starts raking his nails across Lance’s back, doing that thing he vaguely recalled Lance mentioning, and the guy _shudders_ under his hands. A full blown groan rolls past his lips and they both freeze, very aware of the hands on each other, the state of both of their faces, and their insanely horny instincts screaming at them to continue (also Keith’s dick).

“Uh,” Lance fumbles, fingers pressed along the underside of his thighs. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this now.”

Keith nods rapidly, then finds himself asking, “Wait, why not?”

“Well, uh, for one,” Lance mumbles, cheeks a furious red. It’s good against his complexion. “We don’t have any lube or anything. Kind of need that.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Aw shit, Keith, don’t look at me like that,” he whines, and drops himself right on top of the Korean. “You’re insanely hot, like, hotter than probably what’s good for me, and you have no idea how many Galra I’d stab so I could just get to the chance to like, put my dick in you. But we really shouldn’t be doing this– not without having the stuff we need.”

“Uh-huh,” Keith mumbles, red red red spreading across every patch of skin it could lay on. He could still feel Lance’s own… _package_ pressed against his thigh and he shivers. “We should go get that.”

“I don’t think they have anything here.”

“No, like–” Keith pushes the Cuban off of him, and turns to face him, letting Lance thread their hands together. “Let’s go tomorrow. Let’s go find a– a fuckin’ sex shop, and just. Raid it.”

“Potentially get ripped apart just for expired lube and condoms?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Keith whispers, and presses a kiss against the back of Lance’s hand. “More like, raid a sex shop, then fuck like rabbits everywhere we can because we’re two horny men stuck in an apocalypse?”

“Jesus, Keith,” Lance laughs, tipping his head so it meets his forehead. “Fine.”

They fall asleep like that, in the comfort of each other’s arms and in the sweltering heat of August, exhausted, tired, and afraid of what’s to come.

At least they had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasnt gonna name this camp pt 2 bc a lot of it isnt camp related. also i might go back and edit all the chapter names bc i like naming chapters fun names...but also HEY klacnce;);) i told yall there wouldnt be much fluff but i never said the boys wouldnt be gettin NASTY amiright 
> 
> also.....nearly 7k worlds please...i love to suffer. also wtf wtf 1k views ???? who tf is readingthis. Mess. im really grateful though thank you<3 
> 
> forewarning there will be that sweet, sweet smut youve all been waiting for (probably not) and i just wanted to lighten to mood a lil bc things are getting so debbie downer in the apocalypse.  
> ill section off the smut anyways so that you arent forced to read it bc there won't be anything substantial in it. also its barely gonna play a role in the next chap so ye
> 
> no update next week from 8th-13th bc im gonna be on vacay, hence the new chap... also if anyone is interested in a weapons list...I got U
> 
> hope you all enjoyed!!
> 
> edit;; i changed the chapter names bc i do what i wANT


	9. victory is painful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut is in this chapter, but is unimportant to plot. there is still storyline though, so ill be sectioning off the smut so u dont gotta read it!!
> 
> please also keep in mind that it was written purely to develop my skills as a writer by branching out out of my comfort zone. thank you!

“So you’re telling me, you and Keith have very important business this morning and need permission to leave the camp?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what this business is?”

“...Supply run.”

Allura rolls her eyes, sitting cross-legged in the med bay. She was tending to Thace’s remaining wounds before he was to rendezvous with one of the Blade’s nearby teams. Matt was still bedridden, gaining back his strength after months of ass-kicking and what not. 

Matt snickers, earning a pointed look from Shiro. Pidge has a disgusted expression on her face, faking a gag when Lance winks at her. Keith feels one too many pairs of eyes on them, and tugs on Lance’s sleeve, urging them to leave before anything got out of hand.

“What’s so funny?” Shiro asks, filling in Allura’s silent question. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Matt snorts, masking his giggles under his hands. “Just. _Supply run.”_

“Please don’t,” Pidge pleads, burying her face in her hands. The expression on Matt’s face is pure _demon,_ like he knows a deadly secret. Which, in Keith’s case, he does, and panic bubbles in his stomach.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Shiro retorts, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. Allura mimics his pose, glancing between Keith and Lance.

“I would like to know as well,” she states, “I don’t like sending my men out on unnecessary runs.”

As eloquently as he can put it, voice unwavering and full of strength, Matt sing-songs, “They’re gonna _fuuuuuck.”_

Pidge screeches, throwing a pillow in his direction and smothering him with it. “Shut up! You could’ve not said it, now I’m gonna be thinking about it all day, you’re so gross!”

Shiro’s face is beet red as he glances between Matt and an equally red Keith. Lance is bouncing on his heels, a shy grin on his face as he laces his fingers with Keith’s. Allura looks surprised, and a few moments pass, when a heart laugh escapes her.

“If that was all, you should’ve just gone! You have no idea how many people sneak out for that sort of thing!”

Keith’s expression is one of obvious bewilderment, and nods quickly before pulling Lance out of the med bay. They’ve almost made it out without any other embarrassing comments, but Allura ruins it with a call of, “Shower well beforehand, you both smell awful!” and then they’re off.

After collecting their gear and the map they’d prepared for the quick run, they set out towards the direction written on the map. Actually obtaining the map itself had been hell reawakened– nothing was more embarrassing then appearing at Shay’s doorstep in the wee hours of the morning, begging for a map of the city. Which in turn, lead to her questioning on why he needed the map if he wasn’t a camp runner, and then caused the twenty minute conversation of his explanation of the manner of his and Lance’s relationship. Shay was more than happy to help, and Keith would’ve thought it was weird if it wasn’t for how damned _nice_ she was about it. Like they weren’t talking about the nearest sex shop, and how Shay only knew about it because they’d hidden inside the shop when hiding from a small herd. Keith noted it as the weirdest conversation he’d had in awhile, but melted under her soft smiles as she wished him good luck. You couldn’t be anything but happy around Shay— she was a godsend.

The trip itself wasn’t too long; about thirty minutes out from their current location but the entire situation was just– strange. They had wary eyes around them, keeping safe distances from any milling biters and watching each other like hawks. Keith was having a bit of a hard time understanding how the hell looking for condoms could be so serious.

A tap on his shoulder broke him out of his stupor, and he blinked awake, looking at his companion. Lance was obviously trying not to crack a smile, and gestured towards the road. “Don’t worry bout a thing, Mr. Grumpy. You act like we’re breaking into the Pentagon or somethin’. Think about it this way: in about two hours, we’ll have a funny story about beating a biter with a dildo and laughing about it while we’re balls-deep in sweet, sweet love-making.”

“Don’t ever say that again,” Keith grumbles, pushing away Lance’s face when he puckers his lips. “You’re gross.”

“Aw, c’mon, _baby,”_ Lance croons, placing a hand in front of the man before aiming his crossbow towards a biter, and firing. “You can’t resist me.”

Keith shrugs, and they continue forth.

–

They reach the shop sooner than expected. It’s a weird experience, walking into a shop so untouched by the horrors outside; then again, it was a sex shop. Keith couldn’t name anything especially useful inside of something like that. 

“Okay, buddy, not to like– not to shock you or anything, but look to your left.”

Keith looks to his left, and promptly slaps his hand over his mouth to prevent the snort escaping him. 

In his vision stood a rather tall lurker, mindlessly bumping against the countertop and reaching it’s hands towards the pair. It’s actions weren’t funny, but what it was wearing was– a full-body, black latex suit with a rubber mask pulled tight over it’s face. There’s a gag ball stuffed into its mouth in a futile attempt to keep it from chewing on human guts, but the saliva gurgling over it made the sight worse. He does start laughing, buckling over and falling to his knees when he notices that there’s a spindly, cone-shaped dildo suctioned to the counter that the damned Latex Zombie keeps knocking its hand against. Keith decides, right then and there, that this is his favorite place and he never wants to kill the Latex Zombie.

Lance is leaning against a wall of vibrators, wiping a tear from his eye once they’ve finished laughing at the thing. “Remind me to never let anyone shoot that thing.”

“Oh– Lance, do you think Shay saw that?”

Lance starts laughing again, wheezing out breaths in between and trying to steady himself. This was the most Keith had seen him laugh in a while; it was nice.

“Fuck, dude, I’m _so_ going to get that story whenever we finish up.”

Keith chuckles, and they continue their endeavours. Both are well aware that the things they need are right in front of them, but it’s more fun to make jokes about an apocalyptic sex shop.

“This is literally an entire wall of porno mags, dude,” Lance mumbles, nudging magazines with the muzzle of his rifle. “You ever realize how much porn is like, super duper sexist or seriously weird? Where’s like, the feel good pornos where everyone’s just nice to each other and, y’know, normal?”

“Can’t kinkshame people for wanting to get fucked by a dude wearing a bug costume, I guess.”

Lance lets out a hearty laugh, and then lets his eyes slide towards Keith, a fond look on his face. “Y’know, you’re a funny guy.”

“I am?” Keith wonders, scratching the back of his neck as he’s pulled toward a door labelled “Peep Show.” There’s the sounds of the infected behind it, and the thought of a zombie stripper occurs to him. A chuckle escapes him.

“Yeah. I feel like I don’t know a lot about you, though,” Lance trails off, then jerks his head towards the door. “Can we talk about that after we bash some brains in?”

Keith nods, and Lance rattles the doorknob a few times. A quiet count-off is muttered under his breath, and Lance yanks open the door. The sight before him is even _better_ than Latex Zombie: a lingerie-clad biter comes shambling towards them, teetering on bright red heels and stumbling over its friend in blue heels. It’s kind of cute, honestly, the way they’re limping together towards their untimely demise. 

Keith is remorseful when he swings his machete into the skull of Red Heels, watching Blue Heels collapse beside its friend with a pained moan. Quick to finish the pair off, the man slams his machete down into its’ brains with a grunt of effort. Lance takes care of the straggler, arrow sailing into its forehead. With that, they fall onto the dirty velvet couches with a heavy sigh. 

After they recollect themselves, they take in their surroundings; there’s a spilled bottle of beer on the round table before them, and the red numbered stalls are all sealed shut. It’s unnerving, to think that someone was just doing their job when they’d been turned into a man-eating monster. 

“You ever think about how many people never even made it to the zones before they were turned?” Lance mutters, leaning his head against the paisley-patterned walls. He’s staring at the stalls, and it seems both of them wonder how bad it was for people who were stuck on the outside with no nearby zones.

“You just have to hope they were safe, at least for awhile,” he replies, playing with the fraying denim at his ankles.

They sit in quiet for a while, pulling out a stiff protein bar to share, and Lance is the first to speak up.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“...what?”

“I don’t know anything about you, dude. I say if we’re gonna get it on, we might as well do it knowing what each other’s favorite fruit is. C’mon, indulge me in a game of twenty questions.”

Keith is hesitant, but he’s not sure why. The logical part of Keith tells him that it’s because he’s always been a closed off person, so much so that there’s things he doesn’t even share with Shiro– it’s no wonder he feels uncomfortable in doing so. The emotional part tells him he’s just afraid of pouring his heart out to the guy he likes, but at the same time, it’s screaming at him to spill all his secrets to Lance. Lance is safe, Lance won’t judge him, Lance is _good._

So he does.

“Blue.”

“Huh?”

“Blue,” Keith breathes, gazing deep into the dark, dark pools of eyes before him, “but not just any blue. Really– really dark blue. Navy blue.”

Lance nods thoughtfully, head tilted up towards the ceiling. A smile curls on his lips. “I like red myself. Scarlet, maroon, burgundy, you name it. I just like red.” A beat passes, and he winks. “Blue’s my second favorite, though.”

Keith mulls his question over; there’s a lot of things he wants to ask, but it’s a silent rule between them to keep it simple at first. So he manages out, “What’s the first thing you notice about someone?”

“Eyes.”

Roughly an hour passes and Keith knows Lance like the back of his hand. 

He’s learned a lot, if he’s being honest. He knows that Lance loves garlic knots and fried chicken, his shoe size is a whopping size twelve, he was born inside of a Red Lobster when his mother refused to leave until she finished her meal, he’s broken both legs twice over, he had his “bi awakening” when Carter from his biology class in eighth grade said he had nice legs, his perfect date idea is sharing a box of pizza on the beach in Cuba, he learned to surf when he was eight, he can pull his feet behind his head, and just a bunch of other useless facts that came up during their questions. He’s certain Lance knows enough about him too, like how he gets nervous around small dogs, or that he’s lactose intolerant, or has a secret obsession with the Power Rangers, and he’s the pickiest eater on the planet. It’s nice, great and awesome until question eighteen rolls around.

“What are you most afraid of?” Lance asks, having been quiet for a few moments thinking about his next question. His hands are folding over themselves nervously, like he’s crossed a line. At that point, there weren’t any barriers between them.

“I’m afraid of hurting people, I think,” Keith utters, tucking his knees into his chest. “Not on purpose or anything, just– doing it subconsciously. Hurting someone and I don’t even realize it. I’m emotionally stunted or something, because I’m really bad at figuring out social situations and I never know when to stop. Shiro tells me that I don’t really make a lot of expressions, so people just think that I’m always angry, so they get upset and– I’m scared that it’s going to mess up things some day.”

Lance is silent, and when he’s starting to worry he’s said too much, Lance takes his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Keith feels heat prick at his neck.

“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re plenty fine talking to people,” he whispers, and pulls him off the couch. “How about we head back?”

They eventually do leave, after a few more minutes of laughing about wizard-based sex toys and cupcake flavored lube. Of course, they opt against anything “fun” and take their normal condoms and lube. They goof off with Latex Zombie, have a quick make-out session against the shelves of flesh lights, and run away from a pair of biters on their way home. It’s a good time, and they both hop in the shower when it hits Keith.

He’s halfway through rubbing away the grime at his neck when the realization dawns on him. They’re going to have sex, he’s going to see Lance’s dick, they’re going to fuck like horny college kids and they have no idea what their relationship is, even.

He elects to ignore this, and stays in the shower for another thirty minutes.

* * *

 

The moment he lets Lance know that he’s “ready for action”, Lance slams him against the wall and there’s hot lips pressed against his jawline. Keith lets out a huff, curling his fingers against Lance’s arms and dipping his head into a kiss. Their teeth clack a little, awkwardly slotting against each other and stumbling back into the bed. They fall, knocking their foreheads together and exchange a soft chuckle. 

“So, before we start,” Lance huffs, rolling over when Keith forces him on his back, mouthing at his neck, “safe word?”

“...latex.”

Lance snorts in response, which quickly turns into a brazen sigh sending chills up Keith’s spine. He’s still going to town on the column of tanned, rugged skin, marring it with bruising purple hickies in his wake. 

He’s all teeth and nails and shivers when Lance is running his hands along his spine, thrumming against the barren dip of his back. Finally, finally he makes a move and Lance’s hands are gripping his ass, squeezing his thighs and he lets out a groan.

“Fuuu– _uuck,_ Lance,” Keith sighs, dragging his tongue down the Cuban’s exposed chest, and up, up, up until it meets his chin. Lance is shaking underneath him, and Keith finds he quite likes the sensation. 

The taller practically growls in his ear, massaging his fingers into the solid muscles of Keith’s inner thighs and now he’s the one shaking, Lance’s fingers skimming by his crotch and barely ghosting over it. It’s almost a competition now, who can get the other moaning first. 

A few moments of heated makeouts and teeth at any inch of skin they can get at, and Keith is the one to take initiative. The Korean leans back on Lance’s thighs, a sly grin on his face and Lance looks positively _messy._ His face is flushed scarlet, catching his breath with swollen lips, and the blossomed hickies at his neck add fuel to Keith’s fantasies. The best part of it all is the hard-on he’s sporting, straining against his briefs, and Keith licks his lips absently.

He could get used to this.

The man traces along the hard edges of Lance’s torso, enjoying every dip of scarred skin and muscle. The Cuban squints at him, rugged breathing under his breath and Keith offers a wicked grin. He presses his nails against Lance’s stomach, dragging his nails feather-light against the expanse of beautiful, brown skin and Lance _moans._ It isn’t quiet or suppressed, and he grips Keith’s forearms when he presses a trail of wet kisses down until the hem of his briefs.

“Keeeith,” he whines, taking the Korean’s chin in his hand, “what’re you doing?”

“Having fun, _Laaance.”_ Keith smiles, hooking his fingers on the hem of his briefs, but hesitating. “This is okay, right? I can— like, use my mouth, a little?”

“Jesus Christ, Keith– yeah, yeah you can just...who says that? That sounded so fuckin’ innocent, like you haven’t sucked dick before.”

“I’ve sucked plenty,” Keith quips, and yanks down Lance’s briefs.

Keith liked sex. He wasn’t a prude or anything like that, and being a rebellious gay kid in his later years led to many different endeavours. If he was being honest, dick-sucking was probably his favorite past time, aside from knife-collecting or something. Lance would be no exception to his hobby.

Keith admires the sight before him; Lance’s hard, throbbing dick, teetering slightly towards the right and a generally wonderful sight. Again– Keith loved dick, and Lance’s was his new favorite.

“Nice,” he croons, pressing a kiss against the swollen head; Lance scowls, flicking Keith’s forehead with a noise of complaint.

“Please don’t look at my dick that long, dude.”

The Korean chuckles, but obliges, tongue slipping against the underside of his cock. Lance shivers, hands shooting down to grab fistfuls of hair as Keith swirls his tongue around the head. It was a little easier to get a grasp on someone’s size when he was actually going down on them– but he’d never tell Lance that he had an _awesome_ dick. Not huge, better than average, and something about the way it twitched got Keith all hot and heavy– god, Lance was so fucking _hot._

Keith presses a trail of wet kisses, suckling lightly up and down the underside of his dick. A few minutes pass of this, Lance’s puffs of breath filling the silence of the room before he lets out a whine.

“Keith, please? Can you– you’re killing me here, man.”

He breaks out a chuckle, mumbling a “sure” and bracing himself against the Cuban’s hips. He presses one, final kiss against the head before wrapping his lips around Lance’s dick. Keith slips his tongue around his cock, hollowing out his cheeks and sinking his head down as far as he’s allowed. 

A long, quivering moan escapes Lance, hands twisting and pulling at his scalp. Keith hums pleasantly, sending wonderful vibrations up and down Lance's body. Lance’s hips buck involuntarily, fingers slipping and digging against the nape of his neck. 

“F-fuck, _Keith,”_ he babbles, stroking his thumbs against his Adam’s apple, “you’re fuckin’ great at this…”

Keith pulls his mouth off with an audible pop, jerking his wrist up and down his dick, pulling himself up and leaning towards his lips. Lance gags, pushing his face with the palm of his hand. “Please don’t kiss me, man.”

Keith furrows his eyebrows, hand stopping and staring at Lance with a blank expression. “I just sucked your dick– I sucked your fuckin’ cock, dude, went to Happy Town with your penis and you’re scared of dickbreath.”

“...okay, fair enough,” Lance surges forward, capturing him in a hot, heavy kiss and wrenching Keith’s hand off his cock. He flips them over, Keith swinging his arms around the Cuban’s neck. Lance’s hands roam, brushing across the backs of his thighs. Pulling away from the kiss, the man dips his tongue into his collarbone, earning a quiet giggle from his partner.

“What’s so funny?” he mumbles, pressing kisses against his neck.

“Nothing,” the Korean replies, lacing his fingers through Lance’s hair and pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. He snorts in reply, sucking at his neck and tonguing, nibbling at any patch of skin he could get his mouth on. Keith whined, weakly pushing away the other from his neck and shifting as Lance clambered in between his spread thighs. The sensation of Lance’s still-hard cock rubbing across his own clothed dick pried a moan out of him, muffled by his forearm. Lance grins up at him, sliding his tongue down his neck and dancing his finger along the man’s curved, sweaty spine.

“I’d like to thank whatever god is left out there for this sight I’m seeing,” he teases in regards to Keith’s flushed expression, chest heaving and eyes lidded, lips red, swollen. “You are the sexiest fucking thing I’ve seen since I last looked in the mirror.”

“I’d stop what we’re doing, just so I could knock down your ego a few notches, but my dick is too excited to do that. If you don’t mind, I’d really like us to continue, now.”

“You got it, baby,” he winks, and sits back on his heels. “Just gotta remember this sight next time we go hunting for Galra.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’d like to think about the prettiest sight before I die, thank you very much,” Lance reaches to the table to grasp for the lube, disregarding Keith’s flaming, red face. 

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he shoots back, and pulls of Keith’s underwear with a shining smile on his face. Keith screeches, hands flying to cover himself as if they _weren’t_ already naked together. Lance lets out a hearty laugh, slapping the Korean’s hands away and staring down at his crotch. 

“... _nice.”_ Lance quips, and Keith slams his foot into the Cuban’s side, earning a stiff, pained grunt. “Owww, meanie! You’re violent during sex, you dick.”

“Suck it up and get to work, Lance.”

The man chuckles, uncapping the bottle of lube with his teeth and pouring a generous amount on his fingers. Lance massages the substance between his fingers, warming it up before glancing down at Keith with a smile on his face.

“How ya doin’, Keithy?”

“Are...are you making small talk when you’re literally about to put your dick in my ass?”

“C’mon, babe,” he whines, lips forming a pout as he leans closer towards the Korean, nudging his legs to prop them up in his lap. “Don’t be like that, indulge me.”

“Fine. I’m doing okay, waiting for you to _mmmmmfuuuck,_ that’s nice,” Keith drawls, digging his nails into Lance’s back as a single digit pushes into him. Lance grins, stealing a tiny kiss and scraping his nails against the throbbing muscle.

“Relax,” he whispers, soft against his ear as he stretches out his partner. Another finger soon joins after, sliding past the ring of muscle and slowly pumping them inside of Keith. “Can’t have you breaking my fingers, I need those.”

“Shut up, shuuuuut– fuck fuck fuck,” Keith bites, toes curling when Lance’s fingers scissor inside of him. The Cuban crooks his fingers, pads of the fingers stroking against his walls. Jesus, it’d been far too long since he’d last gotten fucked– literally a _year_ and he felt far too sensitive to last long. “Hurry up, c’mon.”

“I would call you impatient, but _fuck_ you’re so sexy.”

Lance preps him for a few minutes longer before earning the okay from Keith, drawing his fingers and reaching for the condoms on the table. Rolling on the condom as fast as he could (he hadn’t exactly had any practice since the apocalypse started), he lubricated himself quick before propping up the bend of the Korean’s knees on his hips. “You ready?”

Keith nods, nails digging into the man’s bicep as his other guided himself into him. A hiss of pain shot out of Keith, earning a nervous glance from his partner. He shakes his head furiously, spreading his legs further and bracing his hand against the man’s back. Slowly but surely, Lance sinks himself into Keith and bottoms out with a heavy, worn sigh.

“That– th-that fucking hurts,” Keith grits, trying to relax when he sees Lance’s strained expression. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t– you– feel so fuckin’ good…” Lance grunts, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “f-feelin better, buddy?”

The man shoots his eyes towards Lance, squinting before biting his cheeks to prevent the spiel of laughter escaping him. “D-did you just call me buddy? While your dick is– is literally in my ass?”

Lance blinks, once, twice, blindly groping his hand on Keith until it lands against the crook of his neck, then blinks again. A huff of a laugh escapes him, then he’s keeled over in peels of laughter, shrieking and giggling against the warmth of his chest. “Oh– ohfuck, I called you buddy– while we’re fucking, oh my goood!”

Keith joins him, body convulsing with every chuckle. Lance digs his face against his cheek, laughs softening until they sit in calm, and Keith pulls the other’s head so he could see him.

The bright, shining smile that greets him is everything he could wish for, and he bites the corner of his lip shyly and leaning up to kiss him. They’re both smiling when their lips meet, and a few more chaste kisses are shared before Lance pulls away and places both hands on the back of his thighs. “You ready?”

Keith waits, quiet and yearning and nods, and Lance draws away before slowly rocking his hips back. Keith whines, nails dug into his back and toes curling, feet wrapped around his waist. He feels so full, so absolutely positively amazing and more, even if they’ve barely moved an inch. He already feels like he’s going to burst, and the handsome face hovering over him does nothing to help.

“Y-you’re so pretty,” Keith mutters, tilting his head back and letting out a groan when Lance’s mouth seals over his neck. Lance’s face feels hot against his cheek, and he glances over to see the Cuban avoiding his gaze, drawing out a chuckle from Keith.

No reply is heard; Lance rolls his hips, and Keith furrows his brows then yelps when Lance pulls out, then snaps his hips back. 

He jolts, and suddenly Lance is pistoning his hips back into Keith, absolutely erratic and hard inside of him. He moans, raking his nails up and down his back and his thrusts settle into a slow, brutal pace. 

Lance is hunched over him, panting, grunting, groaning and eyes drooped shut, Keith moving a hand to grip the bed sheets. It’s slow, the room feels hot but he can feel the coil tightening into his stomach, struggling out to whimper, “Lance– Lance, you gotta– I won’t–”

“Fuck, fuck, yea, m-me too,” Lance whines, voice pitching and pulling Keith’s legs higher and farther up his waist, fisting his hand around Keith’s cock. He pulls him into a clumsy kiss, lips bumping as Lance’s pace increases and his hand hastily jerking his dick. Keith’s back curves into him, and a strangled, strained wheeze escapes him as that deep coil in his stomach gets even more wound-up. He huffs out a laugh, awkward and meek against Lance’s neck who shoots him a strange look.

“...f-fuck y’laughing abou– mmff,” he bites out, devolving into a drawled moan the harder his thrusts get. Keith can’t even manage out words, he’s feeling so hot and warm and so, so incredible– Lance is incredible, and his dick felt _awesome–_

Keith cries out, fumbling out the Cuban’s name as his hips buck into Lance’s fist and dragging his nails down his back, hard and he’s convinced he’s drawn blood. He spills over Lance’s hand and on his stomach, abs flexing hard and panting heavily. Hypersensitive, he clutches onto Lance as the Cuban finishes out, giving one, two hard thrusts before he comes hard, quivering and a long, high moan rolling past his lips, scrabbling for purchase. His fists curl into Keith’s hair, heaving and sinking to his elbows, each slight twitch or movement sending a chill up the Korean’s spine. 

They can only sit in the afterglow for so long, before Lance drags himself up, sliding himself out, visible shivers washing over them. He disposes of the condom, and gently crawls beside Keith, a heavy sigh leaving him and leaning over to press a kiss to his nose.

“I’d love to tell you how awesome that sex was,” he whispers, pulling an arm over Keith who tucks his head into the crook of his neck. “But I’m really, really tired.”

Keith nods in agreement, completely spent as he rubs a thumb over a bruising hickey on his neck. They’re both covered in teeth marks, red blooming across nearly every visible patch of skin. It sends warmth in his stomach, as if they’ve staked their territory on each other like a pair of dogs. His fingers dance along the still-quivering bicep, and Lance peppers tiny, feather kisses along his cheeks, nose, jaw. 

They fall asleep like that, in each other arms with smiles on their faces and Keith marks it as one of his favorite days in a while.

* * *

 

A month later, and he’s barely seen Lance since their little endeavour. 

It’s not as if it was on purpose; their group had been pulled every which way after their night. The Blade had elected Shiro and Keith as the resident diplomats between the two group’s affairs, as well as reconnaissance. Matt, Pidge, and Lance had gone on multiple rescue missions per Matt’s request, once he’d regained his strength and begged to continue helping camps targeted by the Galra. Hunk had gone with Shay to increase efforts of recruiting those in Voltron, and fighting against overrun camps– none of them had time for group interactions. 

That is, until now– the Blade had caught word of a Galran camp in Colorado, where rumors of a up-and-rising “leader” had established camp in the city of Denver.

“They call him Lotor,” Kolivan muttered, bandanna pulled under his chin as he surveyed the Blade’s camp. Shiro and Keith had been appointed on a recon mission, but unlike their past endeavours, distance between them and the camp was imperative. Kolivan was taking any and all precautions, because unlike Zarkon, the camp’s layout had been completely different, according to their informant who’d kept the camp under close eye the past week. “He’s the one who’s taken control of that testing Zarkon’s been attempting on the infected. Lotor’s not someone I want you to make contact with _at all._ Under no circumstances should you be anywhere closer than three-hundred yards, got it?”

“So is that why I’m here?” Lance questioned, scratching at his neck. His other fingers tutted along the scope of his rifle, observing the bustling camp of the Blade. It struck Keith that he’d never seen the Blade in action; the constant moving of groups, no one sitting around, and lack of any real entertainment value must’ve come as a bit of a shock. Frankly, Keith would admit he hadn’t seen _Lance,_ either. The tiny scars splayed across his cheekbone, and the wrap of gauze around his neck sent a pang of guilt in Keith. Like he should’ve been there for him, whatever he could to protect Lance.

His hand twitches, hitting the back of the Cuban’s own. Before he can recoil, Lance grips his fingers and squeezes his hand tight.

“Yes,” Kolivan states, folding his arms over his chest. “We can’t risk any of our men right now– the Galra are moving in west, and fast on Salt Lake City, and per Allura’s request, we’re here to intervene before they can hit any camps in Utah. Your travel team will be kept to six people, but when you’re on ground zero, you three are on your own.”

“Gee, thanks,” Lance mutters, and before another word is said, they’re piled into a truck and on their way to Denver.

–

“I don’t like this,” Lance comments the moment they reach the camp. A day had passed since they’d departed, after resting at a nearby camp and awaiting til the night to perform reconnaissance. “I feel like I should know that name. Lotor.”

“Probably just sounds weird, honestly,” Shiro remarks, guiding them towards a higher vantage point in the camp. “I felt the same with Zarkon.”

“Well, yeah, it’s just– it feels different, y’know?”

Shiro nods solemnly, checking the area before sending a signal to their getaway car away from the camp. The car would wait for them until they finished their mission, and from there, they’d report to Kolivan their findings. Shiro and Keith flank Lance on either side, who readies his sniper and stoops low to search the area for any signs of the camp. The nice thing was the amount of foliage to cover them; Lance could move freely without causing too much of a ruckus.

They move higher and higher, searching from above the city for any semblance of a camp. Lance does find something eventually, in the dead of the night– a cloud of smoke a-ways off from their location. They move fast, closing in on the camp and an eerie feeling settles over them.

This felt too easy, too– too quiet. But it wasn’t the quiet Keith had familiarized himself with traps, more like the Galra _wanted_ them there.

Shiro beckons towards Lance, indicating up to a tucked away crevice where Lance could crouch and check the area. It was hard to see, especially in the night, but his rifle allowed for some leeway in his vision; even in the dark, Lance could see everything.

It’s still and quiet, and Lance makes a strange noise in his throat when he’s settled his sights on the smoke. “...that’s weird,” he mutters, and readjusts himself.

“What’s up?” Keith hisses, eyes shooting towards the Cuban. He watches him take different stances four times, until he lets out a frustrated noise.

“There’s nothing there.”

“What do you mean there’s nothing there?” Keith bites, shooting a bewildered glance at Lance. He jerks the muzzle of his rifle towards the smoke signal, and to its source.

“I mean there’s nothing there. No one’s by that smoke– it’s a flare, dude.”

The three of them exchange a look, and rush back down to their getaway car. Ulaz stands outside of his car, keeping a careful watch on their surrounding and raises a quizzical eyebrow at the sight of the trio bounding towards them.

Shiro’s the first to begin, quickly explaining Lance’s findings, and catches his breath before sharing a look with Ulaz. “Who told you about all of this?”

“One of the members on a recon mission got the information in Boulder by someone who said he had passed by the area– the member told us we could trust his informant, that he’d saved his life.”

“Did you catch this informant's name?”

“Rolo, if I remember correctly.”

Shiro pales, eyes blown open and Keith feels his stomach plummet. They weren’t there because of a camp, it was to draw away the Blade from the main camp, leaving the eastern side completely vulnerable; of course Rolo would’ve known how their patrols worked, how their eastern side was the weakest because it was so difficult to get into if one didn’t know the camp– Rolo did. All of the Blade, including Allura and all the capable fighters in the camp would be focused in on the west, completely unsuspecting of a group on the move towards the camp.

“We have to go, _now,”_ Keith barks, tugging on their arms as they dove into the car and sped down the road back to camp.

He prayed to whatever was out there that the others would be fine. 

They had to be.

– 

They’re lucky they’d caught on so quickly. The camp must’ve barely been an hour ahead of them, because when they had arrived, the camp was under siege. Allura and the others were under tight cover, futile attempts to fight back on the Galra moving in. Lance had thrown himself into the action immediately, diving for cover and shooting what he could with his pistol. 

Shiro rushed for the weapons, both he and Keith unarmed aside from their blades and near-empty revolvers. With a keen eye from Lance, he managed to make it and grab a few weapons from the suburbs they resided in; Lance kept them off his tail while he gunned it back to cover.

Keith, on the other hand, was having some trouble right now.

He’d never felt more furious, more blood-curdling rage than he did when he encountered upon Jeanine, huddled and sobbing by herself behind a dingy trashcan and away from the Galra’s eye. He was able to get to her by accessing the camp from a different route, and after a few choice gunshots, he dove to her aid and cradled her to his chest. He had to get her out of there, and at least to Lance; Lance could keep her safe from his well-covered area. 

He wasn’t angry because of Jeanine’s loneliness; the thing that sent his blood boiling, fired up and angry was the sight of her mothers. Their bodies lay sprawled on the pavement, blood pooling beside their heads, holes in their foreheads in what looked like an attempt to get Jeanine out. It made him absolutely _livid–_ they were mothers, two women wanting to protect their daughter from the onslaught of the Galra. He recognized other civilians around them, those who’d been safe at the camp, who Allura protected because they could barely protect themselves. Franklin, the kind old man who helped around in the medical bay and nursed Matt back to health when he had fallen ill to a fever. Terry, the shy and nervous sixteen year old who’d taken a liking to Pidge (much to her chagrin, much to Keith’s personal enjoyment to watch her flounder around people her age) lying in his blood, glasses askew. He shoots a look at Pidge, who’s not too far from Lance. Her teeth are clenched, and she’s guarded over Terry’s body like a grim reaper. 

So many more bodies lay around them– Alan, the sweet man who helped Hunk cook. Cara, the gentle giant who stood six foot four and was apart of Shay’s ground team. Eleanor, the freshly-turned eighteen year old who showed Keith her cool yo-yo tricks whenever he came back from recon. Sydney and Reyna, Jeanine’s mothers who offered a warm kindness he hadn’t seen since his parents were torn apart by biters.

Gone. All gone.

Keith grits his teeth, eyes blurred and furiously wipes at his face before attempting to comfort Jeanine. She’s shaking, clinging to Keith like a vice and wailing into his chest and he feels so, so cold. He wraps his arms around her, resolute in keeping her safety. He’d keep her safe, he’d be there for her, even if it killed him. He had to.

He pulls her to face him, wiping her tears and with a hoarse, quivering voice, manages out, “We– we gotta go, okay? It’s n-not safe here, Jeanie. It’s not– It’s not safe, w-we gotta get to Lance, okay?”

She’s still sobbing, harsh sniffles and Keith notices the scrape at her temple, and his blood boils even more. She nods eventually, clinging to his shirt and Keith tugs her close. 

“K-K-K-Keith,” she bawls out, trembling so hard she’s nearly convulsing and Keith’s heart _shatters._ “L-Lance, he– my m-m-ooom, _Keith,_ I-I-I don’t wanna– don’t wanna die.”

He swallows, thick and harsh and kisses the top of her head, firm and assuring. She’s so little in his arms. “I-I won’t let you Jeanie, I won’t _ever.”_

Keith calls out to Lance, who shoots his head in panic and visibly relaxes when he’s assured of his safety. He jerks his head towards the Galra in front of their cover, unaware of their position but still able to shoot them dead if they moved. Lance nods, giving them a countoff before switching to his rifle and laying down any cover fire. Keith bolts across the camp, Jeanine tight in his arms as he tumbles, ankle twisting painfully and lands on his back to prevent any injury to the nine year old. Lance ducks down quick, bullet whizzing past his ear and is quick to check over Jeanine. Lance plugs her ears from the gunfire, wrapping his bandanna around her ears as best as he can to prevent excess noise. She’s still sobbing, tears streaming down her face and Lance tucks her close before placing her in between his legs; a shield. 

He’s quick to tend to Keith, who’s ankle is throbbing but is itching to get on something to kill those horrible Galra. Lance touches the reddened ankle, and Keith yelps in pain but grits his teeth. They share a look, and then surge forward into a kiss, bruising and desperate and nothing like the last kiss they’d shared. This was a kiss of relief, of safety– 

of assurance that in death, he’d keep him safe.

Keith pulls back and joins Lance, hunched over Jeanine and mowing down as many Galra fucks as he could. He wasn’t really even that good with guns, but the fear of losing the camp to the Galra fueled his fire and aided him in the fight against them. They’re slowly but surely getting rid of them, and Shay and Hunk move in fast in an opening, laying down a rain of bullets like the badass couple they are. It works, proving a good distraction and the rest of them move in faster.

 _We’re winning,_ Keith thinks, grin spreading over his cheeks as he continues firing at the Galra. He’s exhausted, his arms are trembling but he can see Jeanine waiting in anticipation, tears calmed in place of anxiety. He’ll tend to her later, he notes to himself, and lets another huff of victory out when a Galra falls under his bullet. There’s so few left now, that they could pick them off one by one– 

“Grenade!” Shiro bellows from his left, and panic shoots up his spine and trembles all over as the grenade sails behind their cover. 

7.

Keith hears Jeanine shriek, and Shiro moving fast to cover as many of the others as he can. Hunk looks back in horror at his friends, an empty scream escaping him. Keith’s ears are ringing.

6.

Lance jumps forward and swings his arms around them, back exposed to the grenade. Pidge pries herself out of Shiro’s arms, and he hears Matt’s panicked sob. _Katie._

5\. 

He sees Pidge dive for the grenade, fist curled around the device and watching with baited breath. He’s screaming, Keith is yelling and crying and begging, please, god, Katie, _drop it._ He can feel Lance push Jeanine into his arms, and watches him prepare to push Pidge out of the way of the bullet’s wreckage. Pidge throws the grenade, a fierce throw with the muscles she’s built since this hellhole started, and it flies. 

4\. 

She laughs triumphantly, but everyone is still screaming. There’s red blossoming on her shirt, like some kind of fucked up, painful, awful poppy, and all he can see is dark, bloody, horrible, horrible _red._ She’s completely unaware of the seeping blood on her shirt.

3\. 2. 1. 

The grenade detonates, picking off the last of the Galra.

The shockwaves are far enough away so that they aren’t hit by the after blasts, but Pidge looks so proud of herself, like nothing has happened. Blood is pouring down her legs, staining them in it’s angry wake and he’s never seen so much blood. It originates from the left side of her waist, and he can see her stretch her arms in victory, then looks down. Looks at her wound, big and painful and bad and blinks between her friends. Locks eyes with every single one of them, panic setting deep into the creases of her forehead and she tries to gargle out a word, something, _anything._ Instead, her tongue is flimsy, cotton and all she can do is shriek in pain. They surge forward, and her eyes start to flutter and roll behind her head before she’s collapsing into Shiro’s arms, who’s screaming for the medical bay, Slav, anyone to come down right now because Katie is _going to fucking die._ Matt cradles her head, whispering, sobbing _“it’s gonna be alright sweetie, it’s gonna be alright, Katie, why’d you gotta go and do somethin’ so stupid?"_ and Keith watches her head loll back and forth between them. 

His ears haven’t stopped ringing. Pidge is crying, gripping at her stomach between bouts of consciousness until she manages to lock eyes with her brother. A hand moves from her abdomen, covered in hot red blood and she numbly slaps it against his cheek. Pidge is quiet, and her fingers slip from his cheek and she fumbles out a soft, quiet, pained “I’m sorry, Matt.”

Her hand drops, and her head tips forward in a last moment of consciousness before she passes out from her blood loss. Keith moves back as she’d dragged onto a stretcher, moved fast and quick into the direction of Slav’s building, strictly for absolute emergencies. Keith looks at his blood covered hands, having tried to stop the bleeding alongside Shiro. He stumbles, falls back into Lance who’s crying, frozen in time and they both sink to the ground, joined by Hunk, Shay, Allura, Shiro. Matt runs after the stretcher as fast as he can.

It didn’t feel like a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so..yea. this chapter hurt me more to write than it hurt u. im really sorry, i just. didnt like ending this with smut when im itching to get to the next chapter and i have big plans for nxt chap. ps. its gonna be a pov change.
> 
>  
> 
> also, uh, there's now a fixed number of chapters! so yea. if that helps cure anyones anxiety, no this fic will not be super long like 60 chapters. god i would dIE before i ever reached that many


	10. recovery and being a teen in an apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place between the mentioned time skip last chapter, after keith and lance's 'encounter' and to the reconnaissance mission.
> 
>  **NOTICE!!!**  
>  08/10/2017
> 
> to all readers who have read chapter 10 before this note, THERE ARE CHANGES! it comes after "Sometime during", you'll know it when you see it. this will be noted in the end notes. thank you.
> 
> new readers, no need to worry!

Pidge was never good with people.

It’s not like she wanted to be awkward, or unable to properly conversate with teenagers her age, but she’s barely given the chance to. Most of her life was spent with groups of eighteen year old hackers in a run-down arcade, and after Lance met her on a camping trip with her family, it was with Hunk and Lance— and Keith, who was as bad at talking and she was. 

She was forced out of her shell when she’d been roped into Shiro’s training for some of the younger, less capable teens of the camp. 

_“I’m not saying you’re incapable,” he backtracked, rubbing his neck nervously at the sight of her murderous gaze. “I just think it would benefit you if you joined us. Keith’s got a machete, you’ve got a dagger– there’s a big difference between the moves you can use with it, and I think we could use some of your expertise with that knife.”_

_Pidge glances down at the blade in her hands, awkwardly twisting it in her grasp before meeting his gaze again. “Fine.”_

_“Thank you,” Shiro says, sigh of relief escaping him, “besides, I really want to show how to take down a guy bigger than you.”_

The first day of class is hell. She’s running drills alongside the other various fifteen to nineteen year olds, but a sliver of pride buzzes through her when she proves more efficient. She’s faster, more agile, flexible, and stronger than the rest of the kids due to her time with Keith. That doesn’t make it any less horrible, with Shiro barking orders like a military camp leader and snapping orders at her to _Pick up the pace, Katie, come on! I’ve seen you run faster than that!_

By the end of the day, she’s about ready to pull her hair out when Shiro calls her up during their cooldown. The face he’s pulling is one that sends her in a fit of anger, and she stomps up to him with a hissing, “What the _fuck_ do you want.”

She doesn’t get how Matt likes him so much; she’s resolute in her decision to wring her brother’s scrawny neck out for dating this secret-asshole.

“Pidge,” he addresses, firm in his stance with his hands folded behind his back. “I’m going to need you to run another drill.” That earns a look from her “classmates”, who all stare with wide eyes in their direction. It’s boring a hole into her back, how hard they’re gazing at the spectacle.

“Why’s that, _Mr. Shirogane?”_ she snarks, fists clenched at her side. She’s practically a tea kettle, fizzing over with boiling hot rage in her system.

“I just don’t think you gave it your all today. I’m very disappointed, I thought you could’ve–”

Shiro doesn’t get another word out before Pidge lunges for him, screech of anger toppling him over in a feat of strength. He doesn’t give up, simply tossing her over like a sack of potatoes– her anger is far too great to notice the pain, and she’s on him again, wrestling on the dirty ground with fists flying. It would’ve surprised her, if she wasn’t so damn mad. 

A piercing heel-kick to the area between his ribs– _solar plexus,_ she remembers Hunk calling it– knocks the breath out of him and she rolls him on top of her, left arm wrapped tight around his throat and the other trapping his arm beside his head. Her legs swing around him and traps his torso, pinning him down with seething rage. Her heels are digging into his stomach, and moments pass before his arm slaps against her head thrice. 

Snapping her out of her pillage, she lets him go and scuttles out from underneath him, panting heavily. She can feel the throbbing pain at her back from being tossed around by Shiro, the bruising punches at her arms firing up– but a swell of pride overcomes her, because damn, _she did that._

Shiro heaves in a breath, panting heavily as he struggles to his feet. A few students offer their help, but he brushes them off and stands, brushing the dirt off his pants.

“And that,” he wheezes, swooping up Pidge and pulling an arm tight around her shoulders, “is how you take down someone bigger than you!”

There’s absolute horrified silence, Pidge blinking drearily before shooting an annoyed expression in his direction. “You were trying to get me mad, weren’t you, you prick?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I’m telling Matt to break up with you,” she spits, unable to mask the grin on her face– it _was_ a good lesson, after all. Turning heel and stalking towards her house to get a change of clothes, a hand clasps on her sweaty shoulder and she reels around, fist pulled back to strike.

“W-whoa! Whoa, whoa, hey!” a voice cries, owned by a sandy-blond haired boy with thick framed glasses and a plethora of beauty marks on his face. “Please d-don’t hit me!”

“Oh,” she mumbles, dropping her hand to her side and awkwardly teetering on her feet. She vaguely recognizes him from the class, but can’t quite match a name to it– she didn’t bother to ask, really. “Sorry.”

“No, no! I’m, uh, it’s okay– I, I don’t normally do this,” he says, sheepish smile on his face. “Run up to people, I mean, n-not grab them, or– or anything.”

She snorts, and the flustered expression on the boy’s face calms. “Fair enough. I’m Pidge,” she says, sticking out a hand to greet him. He nods furiously, shaking her hand a little too wild, a little too nervous that she feels his hand shake before he wipes his palm against his jeans. She grimaces, staring at her own hand and at her glistening sheen of sweat. “Sorry. I sweat– a lot.”

“I-I was thinking I was the one doin’ that,” he fumbles, a nervous chuckle escaping him and he twiddles his thumbs. “My– my name’s Terry.”

She nods quietly, and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the already gross towel. “So, um, as much as I’d like to continue this, I really should shower.”

“O-oh! Yes, right, ah, well, I just w-wanted to say– you– uh, you– you’re _awesome!”_ Terry squeaks, leaning forward at his sudden burst. He slaps his hand over his mouth, stumbling back a few inches and under the muffle of his hand, whispers, “Sorry. Loud.”

Pidge shrugs, and a half-smile takes over her. “No big deal– thanks, uh...Terry. See you.”

He nods, waving frantically as she jogs back in the direction of the house, and very pointedly ignores the snooping Hunk from the porch. 

“You have a frieeeend,” he sing-songs from the doorway, still staring out at Terry, who’s staring at his hand dumbly from the same place. She huffs, waving off the insinuation and ducking under his arm to shower.

“He just talked to me for a few seconds. We’re not friends,” she mumbles, carding a hand through her sweaty locks. Hunk chuckles in response, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing her towards the bathrooms. 

“Sure, sure. Now go shower, you smell like a wet dog.”

“Roger that,” she says with a mock salute, and bounds off to the shower.

– 

Everything feels like horrible fiery pain when she visits Matt after the third training session with Shiro.

He has whooped her ass successfully into shape. More often than not, she’s forced to pair up with him to spar because the others can’t even lay a finger on her before she’d sent them flying to the ground. It’s honestly strange to her, the day she realized she could fight– as if she hadn’t already been wrassling biters to the ground for nearly a year. Keith taught her everything she knew, and Shiro taught him what he learned– it’s no wonder she’s able to fuck up everyone in the room without breaking a sweat.

The first person to be able to land a semblance of a punch (and by that, she meant he slapped her hand away mid-spar and was quickly incapacitated literally milliseconds later) was some rando douche named Calvin. He was the definition of a straight, white asshole, patronizing her for her size and simultaneously trying to impress her which made absolutely _no_ sense to her.

Needless to say, she enjoys knocking his teeth in when he’s paired up with her. He was an asshole, and even Lance, king of endearing douchiness, was revolted when he’d overheard what he spewed at her.

_”Pidge, jesus, you’re a fucking skeleton. Let’s go get dinner, girls should have a little something on them,” Calvin said with a jerk of her wrist, earning a very horrified, disgusted look from the teenager. She wasn’t even able to manage another word, when Lance started screeching at the sight and rushed over, pushing the dickhead away from her, still screeching._

_“Off! No, no! Off, you– ewwww!” Lance screamed, practically towering over the brunette and dragging Pidge away in his arms. “Ahhh,_ mija, _you don’t need that shit. Find yourself a nice girl or boy, live your life, kill zombies, anything but him,_ please.” __

_“Don’t gotta tell me twice, dude,” she grumbled, and joined him and Hunk for lunch._

Relationships were fucking gross. Pidge had far bigger things to worry about than pining after someone in the apocalypse– cough, Keith, cough. It wasn’t like she wasn’t appalled to such things, she just didn’t care enough to bother. Pidge built a wall between her and everyone else, fear of emotional connections hidden safely behind her steel fortress. Girls, boys, everything in between, it wasn’t her priority– her priority was the safety of Matt, and her friends.

Pidge picks at the gauze wrapped around her fists, breathing heavy before making her way into the tent. Matt lay on his bed, head propped up with a mountain of pillows and chatting absently to his attendant. Franklin, if she remembered right, who always offered smiles and gave them room to chat when she was there.

“Oh! Katie!” Matt calls, beckoning her over and sitting up to face her. “What’s up? Shiro still killing you?”

“A little,” she replies, seating herself in the seat beside his bed. She exchanges a nod with Franklin, and he wanders off for a quick break while they talk. Picking at the frays on her ratty “Girls Who Code” t-shirt, she meets her brother’s eyes. “Hey, Matt?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think–” she stops, having dug a hole through her shirt with her fingernails, “do you think I push people away?”

He regards her for a moment, arms crossed over his chest before tapping a finger along his chin. “Yeah, I think so. Not in a bad way— you just don’t get close to anyone. It wouldn’t hurt to make some friends, while you have the chance,” he pauses, then leans in with a smug grin, “but you’re just like Keith.”

Friends. Pidge had some of those, but they were always busy or unable to understand her plight of being a teenager in an apocalypse. “How?”

“You both love attention, obviously.”

Pidge scoffs, smothering his face with a pillow and a hissing, “I do not,” before she departs for lunch.

As expected, Keith is still not back from a meeting with Shiro on their early departure tomorrow morning to meet up with some of the Blade. Lance is still at the range with Hunk, from what she can tell, and Allura’s helping out in the kitchen during the lunch rush. She’s accepted the fact that she’ll have to sit alone, until she spots a familiar face sitting at a bench, reading quietly to himself.

Matt’s words ringing in her mind, she accepted a plastic bowl of rice and beans from Allura (“Did you get the hygiene pack? Lance might’ve picked it up for you.” “Yeah, thanks– kind of needed those. Thanks for the food, ‘lura.”) and makes her merry way to the aforementioned table. 

Terry jolts in his seat when she plops herself in front of him, digging into her meal like a ravenous vulture. He stares at her blankly, idiotically as she shovels spoonfuls of beans into her mouth, crumbs at her cheeks and legs spread eagle fashion on the bench like the true gentlelady she was.

She takes a break from her lunch, flicking rice off her lips and raising a brow at his expression. “Hey,” she mumbles, and vaguely indicates the area, “Saw you sittin’ here, so I joined you. Matt says I should make friends.”

“Matt…?”

“My brother,” Pidge clarifies, then takes a sip from her warm canteen. “He’s in the med bay, right now. Recovering from his two-month enslavement courtesy of the Galra.”

Her well-intended joke does not handle well, and Terry darts his eyes down to his lap and his jaw tenses. Pidge curses inwardly, blaming her awful social skills on the illustrious enigma that was Keith and coughs into her first. “Sorry,” she mumbles, fidgeting with her sheathed blade, “It’s easier to laugh about it. For the both of us.”

That grabs the blonde's attention. He snaps into attention, drawling out a slow, fumbled response, “N-n-no, nooo! It’s, um, uh, I-I get it. Yeah.”

She nods again, careful, and they finish their dinner together in silence. Terry puts his book down, and Pidge feels a little less guarded.

– 

It takes two weeks for her to warm up to the idea of considering the Terry kid being her friend. After getting past his shy demeanor and constant cowering in the presence of authoritative figures, he wasn’t so bad, just insanely nervous. The only adult he could stand to be around was Shiro, but it didn’t count because Shiro was an angel— when he wasn’t complaining to Matt.

Two weeks passed and the rest of the class has some semblance of technique under their belt. But self-defense aside, the majority of them had never fired a gun, let alone come face to face with a snapping biter at their throat. 

Which leads to her question of the day, of course. It starts with Shiro politely asking how many of them had actually killed an infected. One that wasn’t far away or could be shot. The four hands—one of them was _her—_ that raised in a group of thirty-two sent a chill up her spine, realizing these kids hadn’t a taste of the world out there due to Allura’s early rescue.

They hadn’t been beat up, or nearly mauled, never had to fight a horde on a consistently empty stomach for a week, experience dehydration to the point of collapsing, and god forbid Pidge mention the amount of times she cried in frustration when she’d bled through another pair of pants and had no hygiene products to help her. Now _those_ were the days, fighting biters through blubbering tears because her cramps hurt so fucking bad. It astounded her that only four– four whole people had gotten close to a biter.

The question leaves her before she can help it, and she spills out, “How the hell do you guys survive?”

Shiro scolds her immediately, apologising to the rest of them which only leaves her more dumbfounded.

“Pidge,” he begins softly, pulling her aside for a talk. “They don’t do much around here, let alone out there– that’s the whole point of the class. I get you, Keith, Hunk and Lance are all self-reliant, but these kids are used to the whole sheltered thing. The ones who’re actually trying the hardest want to help, but it’s hard to teach something that you learned in a year, in two weeks.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair and gently lays it on the top of her head.

“Oh,” she mutters, confused but understanding of his statement. “I’m kind of jealous of that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they look up to you. The ladies around here make a big impression— Shay’s a fantastic scavenger and a damn surgeon, Allura’s a great leader and is on the road to a cure, and you’re an angry Amazonian woman looking for blood. It’s kind of magical.”

“God, you’re fucking cheesy,” she grumbles, and they return to the group. The thought lingers in her head, and she wonders absently how these people would even handle the kind of missions the rest of them are sent on.

It carries with her, the rest of the day. When she’s doing some one-on-one with Lance (she only just now realizes how often people stop to watch them duke it out), when she’s taking a quick power-nap before joining up with Matt for lunch, and even as she’s approaching the dining area. Scenarios go through her head on how the rest of the camp would handle being overrun, and she’s only broken out of her trance when Matt shakes her out of it. He’d been up and around since last week, and helped out around camp as much as he could– when he wasn’t begging Allura for a mission, of course.

“Hey,” Matt says, snapping his fingers in front of her eyes, “wake up, sleepyhead. Got some news for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Allura says I can go on missions, so long as it’s rescue only. Lance volunteered to help us out, ‘cause you’re never busy, right?”

“Hey, congrats!” she says, smile lifting her cheeks and jerking her head towards an empty table. “We can go find Shay and see if she’s heard anything.”

Matt nods, and they sit down. Mindless chatter really, and they’re in an argument about the likelihood of mechas being created if civilization was ever to strengthen again. “I’m just saying, Katie, the next step after man-eating monsters are giant robots. We can make them, name it Voltron, and go fight alien butt in _space._ Think about it! Being able to reach– reach goddamn Kerberos with these– oh, hello.”

Pidge turns her gaze over her shoulder and sees Terry, nervous beyond belief with hands clutching a fruit can. She raises a brow, then says, “Hey, Terry. You okay?”

“UH- Um, yea! J-just, ah, Shiro w-wanted me to tell you– tell you that practice is cancelled for the next few d-da-daaays. S-sorry to bother, Pidge.”

“No, it’s okay. Wanna sit with us?”

She ignores Matt’s snicker behind her, and Terry jumps himself stick-straight. His grip on the can loosens, and he shuffles his feet. “Y-you sure it’s okay?”

“Of course!” Matt cheers, and she shoots him a squinted look as he sits on the bench beside her. The quiet is deafening at first, then Matt swoops in with conversation like the true horrible, evil older brother he is. “So, Terry, is it? How do you know Katie?” he sing songs, folding his hands and resting his chin on it. “Know any weird things she does when I’m not around?”

“Fuck you, Matt,” she bites, downing a gulp of water. “I’ll tell the whole camp that thing you did your junior year.”

“I have no shame,” he retorts, and turns his attention back to the teenager. “So?”

“Um, K-Katie is Pidge, yea…? Well, ah, I-uh, we h-have practice together. Shiro’s th-thing. She’s, um, really g-good at fighting him.”

“Oh, yeah, I know. She’s secretly athletic, even if she looks like a total dork.”

“Hey!” she yelps, an indignant frown plastering her face. “You’re a bigger nerd than I am.”

“At least I hide it, you brat.”

“Old asshole.”

“I’m not old!”

“You’re twenty-six. You’re practically ancient.”

Terry huffs out a quiet, tiny laugh and Matt absolutely beams at him. The teenager avoids his gaze, focusing on his fruits and Pidge can only watch him curiously. There’s a semblance of a smile there, nothing like Lance and it almost reminds her of Keith. Silence falls on them again, but her mood is a little lifted. Maybe she did need friends, after all. Someone completely unaware of the emotional baggage she carried since this whole disaster began.

The idea sits with her, for a while, until she’s laying on her messy bed, various equipment and torn-apart electronics strewn around her, small, stuffed and tearing green cat (gifted to her by Matt nearly fourteen years ago) nestled beside her (“Her name is Green, Keith, and she’s the best thing in the world.”). Pidge stares up at the ceiling, flickering light of a candle casting a warm glow at her bedside. It’s relaxing, and gives her ample time to reevaluate her lifestyle up to this current point.

It never was easy. It began when she heard the sirens that marked this whole mess. Flung out of her bed by Keith’s shaking hands and wild pointing at the windows. Screaming about zombies, fucking _zombies_ of all things, that were infesting the city, then forcing Colleen, Samuel, and Katie Holt to the designated area to get the hell out of Dodge. That’s when they see the carnage outside, see the quarantine bus barrelling down the street as a herd of biters follow its wake. That’s when they see Mr. Kogane, who’s running as fast as he can to meet them, and that’s when they watch the herd lunge at him. She can remember the same squelch of skin, the spurting blood of his neck as he’s tackled and the way her father holds Keith back from trying to help. Remembers her slapping Keith awake, screaming at him to fucking _run,_ and then how the four of them hop into the bus as it slows for them. Then it’s quarantine, huddled around each other as Keith sits shell-shocked at the revelation that for all he knows, his family is all dead. Shiro wasn’t answering his phone, back then. 

The part of it that clutches her throat and forces the air out of her lungs is remembering when they were overrun. The first week was chaotic, and their zone could only hold up for so long before they were hit by the infected, too. It’s the eleventh day, Pidge recalls, when the screaming shouts of children, parents, families resound the area and they’re trying their best to book it out of there. Still remembers her father, heroic until his very last breath, kissing his wife solemn goodbyes and kissing the top of Pidge’s head, pulled into a warm, bone-crushing hug. Still remembers the way he asks, pleads Keith keep Katie safe, how Keith pulls him into a hug and calls him the best father anyone could’ve had. Remembers the last words he ever said to her– _Remember me, Katie,_ he said, tears pulling at the edges of his aged, worn eyes, and wraps her in the warmth of his jacket as a final, “I love you” escapes him. He cried, then.

 _Run!_ he bellowed, as the infected notice him waving his arms frantically to draw attention away from his family. _Don’t look back!_

Remembers turning back, one final, lingering gaze, and turning away before her father’s death is imprinted into her mind.

Remembering Colleen is a little harder. It’s a little more difficult, because it happened so soon after Samuel that it pains her to think that she lost them both in the same morning. Colleen had whisked the two of them towards the direction away from the city, pistol pressed hard into her palm and mouth in a thin line, pushing back her sorrows for her children. She took care of Keith until her very end, dabbing at the scrape on his forehead as the sun crawled higher, higher into the sky. Took her necklace with shaking hands, clasping it around Pidge’s neck and telling her that she didn’t have much time. Pidge’s confusion never fell past her lips when her eyes met the swollen, red, horrible throbbing bite at her neck and she clings, clings so hard to her mother, mom, _mommy please, please please this isn’t real I want to wake up please let me wake up–_

Colleen dusts the gentlest, sweetest of kisses a mother could provide and wraps her arms around her, tight. Pulls Keith in, too, whose silent cries never reach their ears and then they’re pushed away. Tells them she doesn’t want to turn into one of those things, never wants to be one of them so long as she lives, and the last thing she can remember is hiding behind a dumpster. Hiding behind a dumpster, ignoring her mother’s tired sighs, but keeps her ears wide open. Keith’s arm around her, warm, safe, but nothing like her parents. 

_Don’t look, baby,_ Colleen said, and Pidge can still hear the trembling metal of the pistol. _Keith, I love you– Katie, baby, mommy loves you so much. She loves you so much. Keep– keep looking forward, okay?_

The ringing sound of that bullet rattles in her head like it was her own brain, and Pidge can’t stay in that room any longer.

Fumbling blindly in the room for a few moments, she locates the familiar worn leather of her father’s jacket, torn at some places and pulling at the seams, and pulls it tight on herself. The weight of her mother’s emerald pendant rests heavy on her collarbone, and there’s lots of static in her ears only getting louder, the longer she stayed in there. She passes by Hunk’s room, who’s playing with the orange headband once gifted to him by his mother and knocks on his door.

He looks up, forcing a smile then letting it drop when he sees the jacket. Tying the headband over his forehead, he pushes himself off the bed and spreads his arms wide. Pidge leans into it, heads shorter and resting against his soft, warm belly and a deep sigh rattles out of her. Her ribs hurt. 

“I’m gonna go walk around, a little,” she states, clutching at the cloth of his shirt. “Will you be okay? You can come with me.”

“I already walkie’d Shay over, so go ahead. Don’t wander off too far,” he says, worn, warm, and exhausted. 

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. Now go, before I spontaneously combust on the spot because of how worried I am about you.”

Pidge snorts. “Speak for yourself, I’m infinitely times more worried about you and your big ol’ sappy heart. Don’t dwell too long, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Pidge turns and leaves, waving a final goodbye to Hunk and out into the walkways. A pang of her heart hits her momentarily, hands clasped tight around the stuffed cat’s hand. She hadn’t even realized keeping the thing in her grasp all this time, but it gave her some comfort. Settled her mind and left her at ease as she walked down the sidewalks. Green was fuzzy, a good weight in her hands and prevented any of her bad habits during moments of loneliness from arising. The area was quiet, aside from the milling guards at the gates and the occasional man or woman perched outside the houses, staring up at the night sky.

A particular individual catches her eye, who’s sitting on the benches with his knees drawn to his chest and gaze glued to the swooping dark of the night. As quietly as she can, she tiptoes over to his side and leans against the table, Terry completely unaware of her presence.

“I wish we could manipulate spacetime,” she pipes up, and the blonde nearly falls out of his seat, hand clutched over his heart. “If we could wormhole everyone off of this planet, we probably wouldn’t need to worry about zombies or anything like that.”

“P-Pidge,” he wheezes out, breathing heavy and brushing his frazzled hair back. “D-d-didn’t even notice you, um, th-that’s not mean, is it?”

She shakes her head, clambering onto the bench and folding herself in like a lawn chair. Green sits on her knees, peering up at the stars with her and a comfortable silence falls on them. She can hear the faintest of noises, like the awkward squeaks and disgruntled noises, then finally, the muffled huff of a chuckle. Pidge darts an eye over, brows furrowed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Ah,” he says, adjusting his glasses and pointing a shaking finger at her stuffed cat. “N-nice cat.”

“Hah, hah,” she says, tucking the stuffed animal under her chin and pressing a kiss to the top of it’s head. “Yuck it up. Green and I are very happy together. Matt gave her to me when I was a baby.”

“M-must be nice,” he whispers, faint and quiet and pulls his knees close to his chest, hands holding the toes of his shoes.

“What?”

“Having some-someone there for you,” he says, playing with the dirty shoelaces of his sneakers. Pidge searches for something, anything and finds only empty sadness, and just– he’s tired. He’s very tired. Strained, even. “...only ever had my, my mom, so, um.”

Pidge falls into a silence alongside him, ribs piercing her heart and her chest feels too, too constricted. She wants to ask, wants to ask so badly _what happened_ but if the pain of losing her own parents clutches at her everything with a vice grip, pulling, picking her brain apart screaming _remember remember don’t forget,_ she’s not sure how much she can handle someone else’s baggage. It comes out, anyways, spilling like sand into the sea and receding like the waves.

“Where is she? Your mom.”

He stops, fingers frozen between the strings of his shoes and Pidge yells at herself, stupid, stupid, you need to learn to shut your big mouth– 

“Got bit,” he whispers, timid and shaking and hands trembling against the hems of his jeans and waves of emotion come crashing down on her, a tidal wave, a tsunami of feeling because they are kids. Kids, who’ve lost their parents, pillars of support and love and care only to be knocked down like wrestlers in the ring, who’ve only lived a portion of their life like normal teenagers, and were swept away into an apocalypse with no light at the end of it. Kids who bond over killing once-living humans and fighting bandits and let their heart spill in the dead of the night, because weakness is unacceptable in this time. She feels a million miles away, the weight of everything everything she lost her mom she lost her dad it hurts so fucking bad and that’s too much. It’s too much for her brain to process, feelings, and she feels so unguarded in a time of emotional stress and all she can think of is providing safety. 

So she acts on it. Takes her little green stuffed cat in her hands, pinching her paws between her forefingers and setting it on his knee. Terry looks up with a bewildered eye, watching Pidge patter its tiny stuffed paws on his knee then finally, lie down and she draws her hands away.

“Green says hi.”

She’s never heard him laugh the way he did, snort slipping past him then a fit of giggles, then he’s doubled over cackling and she joins him. Then they’re just two kids, laughing over a stuffed cat because life works out in funny ways and humor is hard to come by.

Eventually, they stop laughing, and they depart with a wave of goodbye. Pidge feels better, as she makes her way towards her room and her surroundings: Hunk, cradled in Shay’s loving arms with a goofy smile on his face, Keith’s room, where’s he’s sitting up with a big dumb grin as Lance sits cross-legged on the floor telling him about the amazing shot he made today, then Matt, sitting on his bed, alone.

She takes her chance, pushing the door open and earning his attention. He’s ready to poke fun at her stupid cat Green but doesn’t, when his sight falls on the jacket swallowing her whole and taking the burden of the crushing weight of her life, the pendant glimmering in the candlelight, and he motions her over. Pidge crawls onto the bed like she did when she was a tiny toddler, looking up to her awesome ten year old brother, and finds relief in the arm he pulls around her.

“Hey, Matt?” she whispers, minutes after they’re under the covers and they sleep beside each other like infants. “You know I love you, yeah?”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, quiet and threading his fingers through the waves of her hair. “I love you too, Katie.”

They fall asleep like that. 

Pidge dreams of an ocean, wild and violent and unpredictable, sweeping in her view and thunderous clouds crowding over her. It sweeps, and pulls her deep and she can’t feel anything. Then a voice, so faint but so clear and she turns, meeting the soft eyes of her father, her mother, Matt, Keith, Hunk, Lance, Shiro, all of them crowded on the sunny beach, soft sand dipping under them and wants, needs that so desperately. 

The pull of the waves is strong, but she is stronger.

– 

Life is hard, for the next couple of weeks. Balancing rescue missions, and training the other kids and hanging out with everyone she can to block out the loneliness ebbing in her stomach. It works, apparently, and her brain isn’t so convoluted with thoughts. It’s nice, not feeling so heavy all the time.

She’s having lunch with Lance and discussing the mission he’s off to leave for soon. It’s very tight wrapped, and Lance barely knows anything other than to only bring his sniper. It strikes Pidge as a little strange, but she ignores it and elects to listen to her friend’s rambling.

“Keith’s coming too,” he bumbles, between mouthfuls of rice– they have that a lot, apparently, but that’s understandable. “I can show him my sick scar,” he points to the gauze clinging around his neck, injury when a bullet grazed him during one of their missions.

“I don’t think almost dying is ‘sick’, but to each their own,” she replies, then spares a glance at her shirt. “Aw, man, my shirt’s got another hole in it.”

“We can go on a run to get one whenever I come back from this thing, okay?”

“Looking forward to it.”

Shortly after, Lance departs with Keith and Shiro, and Pidge is left to her own devices. Which is really just helping Hunk with maintenance of Slav’s building, as Allura deemed it the only building that absolutely needed electricity at all times. “You’ll regret it if that building ever goes down in a crisis,” her words rung in her head, foreboding, “Any emergencies are dealt with in there.”

Yeah, right. Like they ever had anything that warranted as an emergency.

They’re halfway through checking the generators, Slav communicating with them on their walkie-talkies and doing a general maintenance check of each area. So far, so good, and all of the scientist’s equipment seemed to be running well. They’re just about done when Slav lets out a noise of content, then a quiet “aha!”

“What’s up, Slav?” Hunk asks, backing away from his final check. 

“Oh, no, just saw some misplaced scalpels. Nothing bad, I believe everything works, but there’s always a sixty seven percent chance of everything falling apart in seconds, so make sure to drop by again!”

Pidge huffs out a laugh and the two of them head back to their house, idle chat between them. It’s a calm day, warm, and she can see the volumes of people enjoying the weather. For her, it’s the perfect day for a nap on the porch; she does just that, after the two of them share a calm lunch and head back to their own entertainment.

A few quick stretches later, and she’s lounged across the porch’s cushioned loveseat, heat curling against her skin. It’s nice, and she feels very content, falling asleep there.

Maybe a little too content, because the next time she wakes up, it’s with Hunk hovering over her, gentle hand on her shoulder. Sunset had finally neared its close, but it seemed most of the camp opted to hand around. Even Allura was out, chatting animatedly with Coran. 

Stretching her arms high over her head, she joins Matt, Shay, and Hunk for a conversation. “Hey, do you know if Keith and Lance are back yet?”

“Last I heard, they’re resting at one of the nearby sites,” Shay replies, hands folded in her lap as they take a seat at the benches. Pidge nods, and the conversation lulls on. They cover topics like the Galra, Shay’s recent endeavours in the med bay (“I had a guy come in holding up two of his severed fingers and he was much more worried about a cut on his knee!”), Pidge’s new popularity among the other teenagers.

“It’s dumb,” she says, folding her arms over her chest and leaning against her brother’s shoulder. “They act like I’m some kind of god because I’ve lived out there for so long.”

“I mean, it’s impressive,” Matt ruffles the hair on her head, “Not a lot of people can do that.”

She shrugs, and the conversation carries.

Things begin to feel uneasy when the moon shines over the sky. A few guards pull Allura aside more than once, noting a shift in the trees, untraceable noises around the area, figures moving in the night. It’s enough to put Allura on alert, posting more guards at the western entrances, and ordering any able-bodied fighters to rearm. 

“Should we send everyone to bed?” Hunk asks, looking nervously between the western gates and the various camp members flittering in conversation, painfully unaware of the predicament. Allura shakes her head, sparing a glance at the guards and pointing her fingers out– keep watch.

“I don’t want everyone to worry,” she says, then runs her thumb along the edge of her walkie talkie. “I really wish that I would get some word from the Blade. We have a few of them out a ways keeping watch, but it’d give me peace of mind to hear something.”

“I mean, you might as well contact them yourselves,” Matt comments, shifting his assault rifle in his arms. “I doubt they’ll break out of their concentration just to talk to you.”

Allura hesitates, scratching her temple then nodding in agreement. Recollecting her thoughts, she flicks the walkie on and it crackles to life.

“Base to the Blade, please respond.” Silence, then a short noise of static, but silence. It lights a flame of nerves in the pit of her stomach, and Allura speaks into the radio again. “Blade of Marmora, please respond, this is Allura speaking.”

The quiet is absolutely deafening, and when no response comes through for another ten minutes, that’s when Allura panics. She’s standing and trying to round up the rest of the camp, but chaos explodes when a ringing gunshot resounds from the eastern gates. Screams erupt in the camp as people run to cover. Pidge can only watch in horror as the bodies of the guards on the east fall, a sickening crack exploding their skulls, blood splattering on the floor. She holds back a gag, jumping back and joining the others as they lie in wait for the perpetrators.

They come fast into the area, clambering over the gates and laying fire on the camp. The noise is blaring, ringing heavily in her ears as Pidge is pulled behind cover with Matt and Shiro. They’re pinned down, and she doesn’t even register the fact that there’s still just innocent people so exposed, until the pained howls start.

Franklin was the first one she saw go down. Watched him struggle to drag himself to Hunk, who was rounding up as many people as he could to safety without getting shot himself, then Franklin’s left eye explodes with the searing bullet of a sniper rifle. Then more come; Cara, in all her selfless nature, running head-first at the flank and managing to take out two before she’s gunned down by a nearby Galra. Eleanor, who’s caught in the crossfires when she emerges from her slumber to see the commotion and instead, gets a piercing gunshot to the heart. Alan, who comes to the aid of Jeanine’s moms, and Pidge’s heart tugs in every which way when he takes three, four, five bullets just to push Jeanine behind cover before he collapses and bleeds out. Then her mothers, who distract the Galra aiming to murder a child, but are shot by stray bullets aimed at those in safety. It’s hellfire, absolutely carnage surrounding them even as Pidge tries to focus on the task.

Doesn’t notice the Galra flanking them, rifle poised at her head until she feels a weight knock her down, then gurgling, then a thump. She doesn’t really register who it is, just– what, kills the Galra, and turns to face her savior.

It’s Terry, blood and saliva and sweat dribbling down his lips and an empty black hole torn through his trachea. He’s shaking, quivering so bad and convulsing and Pidge loathes the way her ears ring, shrill and terrible, her ribs tight around her heart and brain in agony. Blood seeps past her fingers as she skims against his wound, hands trembling and big, fat tears squeezing out of her eyes. “Fu-fuck, fuck, sh—shit! fuck, o-o-okay, c’mon stay with me, please please don’t– fuck!”

He’s still coughing, blood pooling inside of his windpipes and Pidge knows it’s only a matter of seconds before it kills him. Crimson sputters out of his mouth, spackling against her hands and his glasses and Pidge takes the sleeve of her shirt, wiping it carefully. It soaks her skin, staining it horrible red and she forces back a whimper. His hands struggle, weakly pressing his thumbs against her wrists and resting his own hands on top. Twice, he jerks under her hands, face pallid and haunting and it never leaves her head. 

His hands slowly, weak, drag themselves up to her face and he holds it, a grin curling on his lips and Pidge starts crying like a baby– her friend, ripped away because she couldn’t keep her stupid eyes on the stupid flank. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she wheezes, and Terry’s hands slip off her face, gives one more shake, and his head lolls to the side. He stills.

Pidge sits still, quiet and torn to bits before reality slaps her back in the face. She can’t dawdle, can’t let this happen to anyone else. She doesn’t, turning fast heel with tears burning at her cheeks and makes the first aggressive shot of the war. Matt follows, bullets lodging themselves in the bodies of the Galra and together, they fight back.

It takes a while, exhaustion rattling their very core as the minutes slip by and it feels like it’s been hours. Lance joins them, eventually, belly stuck close to the ground as he mounts his sniper and sets to work on taking out his enemy counterparts. Keith follows and joins Lance soon after with Jeanine in tow, and the two men share a bruising, desperate, loving kiss. It quirks a smile on her face even at the most trying of times as they work together to take down the Galra. 

It really feels awesome, working side-by-side with your friends to fight against horrible evil. Victory is at the tip of her tongue, and the adrenaline rush is so real as she fights for the fallen, that nothing really bothers her. 

Pidge doesn’t realize it’s a grenade, even after Shiro yells about it. The grenade rolls past them and she can feel Shiro’s arms around the Holts, head ducked lying in wait and the idea of waiting for death disgusts her. So she doesn’t do that; instead, shimmies out his arms, ducking to grab the grenade and wrenching her arm back, throwing it as hard as she can. It sails back to the Galra, who are huddled together so conveniently and moments later, it detonates, sending the Galra flying back. 

Her ears are ringing from the blast, and she looks at her brother, giddy beyond belief as a laugh bubbles out of her, arms lifting and fists pumping in the air. His expression is far, far from joy as Matt’s eyes bead with tears as he’s looking, not at her eyes, but at her stomach, and green falls lower, lower to meet crawling crimson. Blood trickles down her legs, blooming onto her dirty green sweatshirt and cotton sleeping shorts because she wasn’t prepared for an invasion at all– and her eyes finally meet its source, then dart between all her friends, and she tries so, so hard to say anything. No words come out, only cotton-mouthed pain and her legs give out, eyes fluttering shut as she crumples to the floor.

When Pidge comes to, seconds later, fiery pain is crawling across her abdomen and everything feels gross and she’s sobbing, guts feeling like they’re being split in half, and she can feel everyone around her. Laces her fingers into Keith’s hand, the other with hands pressed deep into her wound and head on her brother’s lap, but god, it fucking hurts. Everything is spotty, and the logical part of her warns her that she’s losing blood, and fast. Her hands shake, forcing themselves to move and a pang of deja vu hits her when her hands move to touch Matt’s face. Black spots are dancing in front of her eyes, and but the last of her strength is used to say something– something that’s been at the bottom of her throat for years because she feels like her parent’s deaths are her fault, Matt’s disappearance is her fault, like none of this mess would’ve happened if she had just listened harder, watched the east, saved everyone– 

“I’m sorry, Matt.”

Her world washes black.

– 

Katie never believed in the supernatural.

It wasn’t anything like she was a vehement protester against the idea of things beyond their human comprehension– she was an avid cryptozoologist, and conspiracy theorist, after all– but the idea of something existing beyond their physical world seemed unheard of, fake, even. She desperately searched for proof, trying to find some sort of grasp about life after death and trying to make sense of the claims people said they experienced on the brink of death. Maybe heaven, maybe floating in an endless space, maybe Elysium, just– _something._ It scared her to think death would be nothingness.

Of all things, she doesn’t expect to see her dog, Gunther, who passed away two years before the apocalypse started. When she “wakes up”, the little furball sits in front of her, wagging his furry little butt in absolute joy at the sight of his owner. She looks down, and there’s no wound, nothing, but her outfit is some weird, full-body black jumpsuit that pulls around her neck, and for some unknown reason, she’s wearing armor. And a space helmet– and it’s a mix of green and white. She kind of looks like some badass space warrior, and Pidge is pretty okay with that.

Pulling herself to her feet, she takes in her surroundings. An expanse of forest lays before her, stretched miles long of just pure foliage and Pidge wonders absently if death was really just a giant forest. It’s weird, and her stomach kind of itches in an odd way, but Gunther pushes his head against her calves and she’s moving. Where, Pidge is not exactly certain, but Gunther guides her, and soon enough, he stops in front of a lake. There sits a very beautiful woman, ethereal in every way and blending into the forest like she was made from it. A gentle smile slips over her expression, and Pidge finds herself feeling a flood of warmth, and she is very sleepy. 

Something about the woman felt off– safe, but pained, like she was fighting against what had made her. Her smile falls, crinkled and worried and Pidge notices how her skin clings to her bones– the woman looks starved, almost. All signs of peace leave her body and when she looks down, she’s wearing the same bloody sweatshirt, the same bloody shorts and she stumbles back in shock. Suddenly, a root erupts from the woman’s stomach, vines springing out in every direction as one hurdles towards her. 

Like any sane person would, Pidge screeches in terror and runs, feet pounding as she runs anywhere but there. It’s an out of body experience, really, because it feels like she’s _there,_ physically, but her mind is elsewhere. She can vaguely hear voices, and determining that she’s run far enough away from the creepy vine monsters, dives into a conveniently-placed nook of the forest (thank you, brain!) and listens.

It’s hard, at first. Everytime she tries to focus, her vision gets itchy and her brain feels like it’s going to explode in a pretty pile of viscera. It does get easier, when she breathes through her nose and out her mouth, closes her eyes, and familiar voices crawl against her skull like spiders.

“...gonna need a lot of blood, now,” she can pick out Shay, then the flood of voices hits her like a truck. There’s absolute commotion wherever the voices are coming from, screaming about scalpels and telling Lance that he may or may not pass out depending on how much blood they need because he’s the only one of them who knows for sure has that sweet, sweet, all compatible O-negative blood and that he’s currently the most important aspect to saving her life.

Whose life, she’s not sure, actually, because her memory feels very spotty. It’s a little astounding that she’s off in daydream land while someone is dying, but it’s sort of interesting to know Lance has got the single rarest blood type on the planet. Neat.

It’s quiet again, for a minute, but voices pick up again as Matt’s voice sparks through with a very horrified, very disgusted “oh my fucking god those are her organs” then promptly starts yelling. Then Shiro, scolding him to watch the patient’s vitals like Shay told him to, and the nervous clatter of medical tools against a tray. Lance pipes up, asking what the hell is going on because “Shay, I’m going to puke why are you picking up her fucking intestines like they’re pool noodles?” and then the slam of a door. Huh. 

Pidge assumes that whatever unlucky fellow is under Shay’s scalpel must be in some serious condition, because Shay’s voice seems way too stiff and unwavering than it normally does when she’s fixing someone up. Coran’s voice cuts through, something about active bleeding and for someone to _please for the love of GOD_ the pass the forceps because there’s another perforation on the same segment, and notes that it’s best to resect the portion. Cue Matt’s horrified, “you’re gonna fucking cut off a part of her INTESTINES” then more static. It comes back when Shay tells Shiro to start irrigating the open area, when she finishes her final suture of the anasto-something. 

Then once more, silence, and the sounds Matt’s quiet whispering resonate everywhere, flooding throughout the forest, asking soft and so broken, “When are you gonna wake up, Katie?’’

Her eyes snap open, eyes bleary as she’s met with unfamiliar bright light. It reminds her of a hospital, then the realization that this _is_ a hospital cause her to wildly dodge her eyes around until they fall on the figure of her brother, who’s perched at the window, thumbing through a novel absently– _A Clockwork Orange,_ it reads.

She’s unable to laugh, but sniffs a little louder than usual, and thinks about what to say. Pidge can’t exactly spring up and shout, “hey, I’m alive!” because her limbs feel very numb and her brain is working overtime to understand the current situation. So instead, with tree people and space suits and Gunther on her mind, she croaks out, “Can we get another dog?”

She’s met with Matt’s face seconds later, who’s already blubbering like the big baby he is and frantically calls Shay in to check on her, screeching bloody mary at her. “You– you– fuck, fuck! Katie, holy shit, you’ve been fucking out for a week, ohmyfuckinggod I thought you were dead! Do not ever, ever do that again or I will seriously cut off your limbs and strap you to my back like a fucking backpack, jesus! God, Katie, I saw all your fucking organs all laid out and gross and nasty and there was so much blood, and they’ve already sewn you up but it’s gonna be a wicked scar. Jesus, I just– I love you, so, so much.”

“I love you too,” she rasps, smiling weakly at Shay who’s leaned against the doorway. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Can we get a dog?”

He laughs, tired but full of relief and gently threads his fingers with hers, brushing the brunette locks off her sweaty forehead and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah,” he breathes, and squeezes her hand tight. “Yeah, we can.”

Sometime during the first week of her time recovering and re-learning some basic bodily functions (it’s a lot harder to walk around when you’ve been shot, it seems), she starts thinking about Terry. It sucks a lot, and it’s worse when she thinks about this when Matt is visiting, and suddenly, her eyes are watering. 

“Anyways, Shiro’s coming around at abo– hey, hey, Pidge! Ah, jeez, what’s wrong? Do you feel uncomfortable, is that penrose thing hurting you? Fuck, I shouldn’t of let Shay leave, no wait that’s mean she deserves a break, oh god, what if your stitches all just break–”

“Matt!” Pidge cries, wiping her eyes and waving the other hand weakly. “No, no, I’m fine, it’s just...Terry. I started thinking about what happened to him, and now I’m all...sad and stuff. It feels really shitty that I couldn’t, couldn’t do anything, y’know?”

“What’re you talkin’ about, Katiebug?”

“He’s dead, and it’s all my fault, Matt,” she mutters, and glances out the window. Wherever he is now, she hopes he’s alright– maybe with his mom, maybe chasing green cats and being happy. She misses her friend.

“...oh god, no one told you?! I told– fuck, I told Shiro to tell you when I was out on a quick run!”

Now Pidge is confused. The look on his face is a mix of horror, disbelief, and maybe a semblance of anger because whatever she was not told makes Matt a very overprotective brother, at the expense of Shiro. He gets up before she can really ask anything more, stomping out the door to the direction of Slav’s room where Shiro is holed up getting some blankets for Pidge. Moments later, he’s dragged in by the ear in true Holt fashion, guilty look on his face and a comforter in his arms. 

“Tell her, you big dolt,” Matt hisses, slapping the back of his head for good measure. “Got her all worried and shit for no reason!”

“Can I please get some information here, guys?”

“Well, ah, you see,” Shiro begins, draping the comforter over her and pointedly avoiding her gaze– a thing both him and Keith do when they don’t want to make their respective Holt friends angry. “I kind of, maybe sort of forgot to tell you, well, uh, Terry’s kind of alive?”

 _”WHAT?!”_ Pidge screeches, body involuntarily rushing to sit up. This proves a very poor idea, because the stitches on her belly strain and her vision gets bleary, and she flops back down with a pained groan. Shay comes in right about when she screams, quickly scolding the two boys for stressing her out and quickly checking if they’ve been disrupted by the movement. When she’s reassured they have not, Shay starts fixing her bandages while Pidge goes on a seething rant. “How can you just– just forget about telling me my friend wasn’t actually dead, dude?! Christ, I did _not_ get shot for people to start ‘forgetting’ to tell me people are alive, you big dummy! How do you just _forget?!_ ” Matt begins to slink out the room, but her attention is on Shiro. “Like, okay, I get it, I didn’t ask! Sure! But what the fuck ever, I had him in my arms watching him bleed out, and I cried about it and I was going to cry about it _even more_ so like, why is this just– just now coming to you?!”

“I deserve this.”

“Yeah, you do!”

“I’m sorry, Pidge, I just...forgot.”

She sighs, running a hand through her hair and thanking Shay as she finishes off her bandaging and walks out the room politely. Pidge signals Shiro over, pinching his nose when he reaches her and pulling him into a hug.

“Sorry I got mad, it’s just,” Pidge sighs, scooting over when Shiro takes a seat on the edge of her bed, “he’s sort of my first, like, teenage friend, y’know? Lance is 20 now, and Keith and Hunk are almost there, and Matt is 26, and I’m only 16. It’s a little harder to relate to you guys, so when I started talking to him and we got pretty friendly, it was nice company, and then I thought he died, and no one told me he didn’t.”

Shiro nods, eyes full of understanding and opens his mouth to say something, only to be cut off by Matt’s singsong cooing, “My boyfriend and my little baby sister are bonding, so cute!”

“You ruined it,” Shiro mutters, and takes a quick glance at him. Pidge can’t really see anything behind Shiro’s back, but he smiles and her curiosity is peaked. He turns back around with a wave, and says, “We’ll give you some space,” before exiting the room, dragging a fussy Matt in tow.

Her eyes drag over until they meet wide green eyes, blinking at her like she’s told him the secret of life, and her stomach twists at the bandages wrapped around his neck. Terry whimpers, quiet, then rushes forward and pulls her into a hug. It’s a burst of emotion from him, and she finds herself wrapping her arms around him and hugging back, until her stomach starts to hurt and she taps her palm against his back with a chuckle of, “tap out, tap out!”

He leaps back, fumbling with the askew glasses on his face and wipes the tears in his eyes. He looks positively messy, sandy blond locks sticking up every which way, thick bandages on his neck and a slight scrape on the side of his face, but he looks damn happy– better yet, he looks alive. Pidge grins, placing a gentle hand on her stomach to keep herself from jumping for joy and speaks.

“I really, really thought you were dead.”

“S-same here, Pidge.”

“It’s nice that you aren’t, but– jeez, how’d you _survive_ that?”

“I-I should be askin’ you the, the same thing don’t you th-think?” he quips, and rubs his neck nervously. “Th’ b-bullet barely missed my trach-trachea. I w-was lucky, I guess.”

“Same here. Just got a few bumps in m’guts and I’m missing part of my intestine, but I think I did pretty alright,” she pauses, placing a gentle hand on his forearm and patting it softly. “Really glad we both made it though.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, eyes wide at the hand on his arm. “Me, too.”

Two weeks later, Lance visits her when she’s finally moved from Slav’s building to her house (after a thorough sterilization and a round the clock carer at her side). She’s really unsure of why he’s got the biggest, dumbest smile on his face, and Keith is by his side and he looks just as happy, which throws her off more. Shiro throws them a look, fingers deftly pulling her hair into a braid, sitting cross-legged and using his knee to keep her back straight.

“What’s up?” she asks, ignoring the minor twinge of pain when Shiro shifts from his position. Aftercare is always so uncomfortable. 

“Allura said we could keep him,” he replies, giddy beyond belief and joy practically leaping out of him like fleas. “I said that he should be yours, though.”

“Explain,” she mutters, ever suspicious of his antics. 

Then, with the quietest of cheers, Keith whispers out a gleeful, “Tadaaaa,” and untucks his arms, revealing the best thing she’s ever seen in her life. A small thing, sniffing curiously at his surroundings and wild black tufts of fur splashing on its little puppy feet, and tail, and chest and eyes and Pidge _melts._ She coos at the dog, grabby little hands begging for him to be at her side immediately and plugs out Shiro’s questions of “does he have fleas, Keith, you know that he needs to be totally clean if she’s gonna be near him–“ “Yes, _dad,_ he does.”

“Where’d– how’d you even get this little guy,” she whispers in awe, stroking his tiny puppy ears as he patters his little feet across the bed, sniffing her leg and sneezing immediately after. Pidge is now a puddle of happiness.

“We’ve kind of been following him for a while,” Lance states, kneeling at her bedside and smiling at her. “We didn’t want to be the asshole taking away a little doggy from its dog-mom, but the poor guy was on his own and he looked miserable. He’s super friendly, and I think his mom must’ve been gone for a while. Keith says he’s still pretty young.”

“Keith, the dog expert?” Pidge snorts, and Keith huffs indignantly.

“I resent that,” he mutters, knocking his knuckles against the side of her head. She moans in pain, all too exaggerated and laughs under her breath when Shiro reprimands him for disrupting her healing process.

“So, I can name him?” she asks, taking the puppy and setting him on her lap. He circles, once, twice, then lies in between her thighs and Pidge gasps under her breath.

“Yup! He’s your dog, but just make sure he gets potty trained,” Lance shoots a look at Keith, who is resigned in his new role as dog expert and will do anything for Pidge.

“Make sure it’s a good name,” Shiro says, tying off her braids with a smile and readjusting his knee. Pidge takes a moment to mull it over, in which time Hunk has joined them with a pair of paper plates and dog food, and coos at the sight of his friend and the dog joined in holy dogtrimony.

“Rover,” she declares, ignoring the obvious disappointment (or horror, she couldn’t tell) at the decision. His pointy ears perk up, looking at her with wide eyes and she’s certain of it.

“If you say so,” Lance states, and lets a smile crawl onto his face. “Rover it is.”

She strokes Rover’s ears, and the rest of them depart with good wishes. Pidge is having a great time, until she decides she needs to go to the bathroom and leaves the dog on her bed. Shiro stands at the door, and only seconds later, she hears a scramble, a thump, then the man going, “Oh, no, dammit Rover!” When she emerges (no blood in her urine, woohoo!) Shiro is lying face first on the floor, and Rover is wagging his tail proudly beside the wet stain on her bedsheets. Shiro guides her to his room for the time being, while he changes the sheets and gives a very stern talking-to at the puppy who follows him at his heels. 

“Don’t pee on Pidge’s bed,” he scolds, but it doesn’t have any heart in it. “She’s healing.”

Her guts may ache, and maybe there’s a chunk of her intestines missing, and maybe she’s lost a lot of friends and things feel a little empty, but for the time being, it feels okay.

It will all work out, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTICE!!!**  
>  8/10/2017  
> TERRY LIVES BIATCH
> 
> uhHHHH SOOOO  
> YEA
> 
> we didn't really progress that much, but this was such a well needed break from writing sad pining boys. i wanted to write from the perspective of a 16 year old kid in a fuckin apocalypse, because that shit is hard sometimes and i think pidge needed something to ground her. hence the creation of terry, who was that other teenager who's equally as traumatized in this situation. i wanted to write her struggling to deal with her parents, and her own place in the world, and of course, grant peace of mind on her whole gunshot thing-- the whole thing about the forest scene, if you haven't guessed it, WAS a dream so no, it is not my interpretation of death, it's just pidge's fucked up dreamland. she's the type of kid that considers nightmares the norm.
> 
> with that in mind, please suspend ur disbelief at my shitty explanation of that small surgery scene. i watched like 92834 videos (actually two very detailed surgery videos of a gunshot wound to the abdomen that involved cutting out part of the intestine, and a bunch of other cool junk but it was super graphic in case anyone is interested) and while it's very unlikely that pidge would've survived, u know i love her too much to do that. so give me the benefit of the doubt, and also enjoy surgeon shay and matt seeing his baby sister's guts being thrown around like hackey sack.
> 
> with that, thanks for reading and we'll get back to your regularly scheduled keith point of view next chapter!
> 
>  also, we hit 50k words only halfway through this monster of a fic, and considering these chapters keep getting longer every time this updated, we might actually hit 100k words. wow!
> 
> ps. this won't be the last pov change, but this will be the only one that is a flashback


	11. bad decisions

Keith spends a lot of time inside the camp, after Pidge gets hurt. Of course, he’s responsible for a lot of things around camp, especially when he’s finally allowed on solo missions with, and for the Blade of Marmora. They take a liking to him, generally due to his silent, but deadly composure and hidden talent with nearly any blade. As of late, they’d sought him out more so than Shiro; not that his older brother was complaining, considering it gave him more time to focus on chasing after Zarkon (“He took my gun, Keith. My _favorite_ gun. He’s gonna pay for this.” “Shiro, he kidnapped you and put you through hell for two months, and you’re worried about a gun?” “He took my gun, too! I want blood!” “Matt, you’re not helping.”). Zarkon had narrowly escaped, due to right-hand woman’s quick thinking, smoke-bombing the area and forcing Shiro’s team to retreat to prevent any further injury.

Aside from his time with the Blade, he spends most of his free moments with Pidge. She’s still healing because it’s kind of hard to recover from an abdominal wound, and Shay suspects she’ll be stuck for another few weeks– but god forbid she’s put on any mission until her body’s fully recovered. 

The worst of it came the first– technically second– week; she was beyond embarrassed about how horribly weak she felt, coming out of a coma then having to be treated like a fragile baby until her recovery was up (Keith neglects to mention her temporary colostomy bag because surely, that would have mortified her worse). 

The majority of her first conscious week of recovery consisted of a frustrated, angry, snot-nosed tantrum when she was unable to even sit up, let alone walk to the bathroom by herself. Keith had walked in midway of Shiro trying to calm her down, tears bursting out the corners of her eyes and he had to ignore the pang of his heart at the sight. Then came the awkward maneuvering, trying to figure out a way to carry her to the goddamn bathroom _literally_ two feet away without folding her like a lawn chair and turning her organs into chicken noodle soup. Eventually, when Keith himself was on the verge of tears because Pidge was a very fussy patient, Shiro was on the ground trying not to lose his shit, Hunk walks in and takes one look at the scene before paging over Shay as fast as he can.

That’s when Keith learns he is not good with angry, pained gremlin babies and Shay is so much better at this.

They keep the woman on stand-by, just in case something happens like Pidge’s entire stomach spills on the carpet or she starts peeing blood that’s definitely not from her period. Luckily, she’s recovering rather smoothly, and by the second week, she’s able to finally shower on her own– clarification, Pidge could very much shower on her own, but it did no favors for anyone when her legs turned to jelly and she promptly slipped, nearly cracking her head open and having to wait in humiliation for Shay to come and help her finish up. 

But finally, she can shower, and the day she comes out of the shower on her own and fully clothed is cause for a celebration. Lance jams a CD into an old player Pidge had fixed up, and Britney Spears’ _Circus_ album plays on repeat while he helps her redress her wounds.

Of course, when Keith and Lance decide to fulfil their precious gremlin baby’s precious dreams to retrieve a dog, he’s forced into dog duty to properly house-train Rover so he’s not shitting on Pidge’s bed when it’s top priority to keep the area clean. Keith doesn’t actually mind _too_ much; Rover picks up the scheme of things quickly, and soon enough, Shiro deems him able to be with Pidge full-time. 

Keith is also certain she’s grown a severe love-hate relationship with Shiro. Loves him because he is a sweet man, cares for her deeply, and takes care of her better than a bunch of other equally as young teenagers. Hunk coddles her too much, Lance talks too much, and Keith is bad at comforting someone who got fucked up by a bullet.

October has rolled around by the time she’s been in recovery for a month, and it dawns on Keith how much time has passed. Allura reminded him they had all joined back in early June, and it’s strange to think they’ve spent almost half of a year there. 

It’s even stranger to think that he’s lived through a year, a full _year,_ of this fucked up shit and they’re still fighting “wars” like a bunch of pricks, only this time, Keith is on the front lines. He’s not sitting behind his phone, scoffing at another homophobic, racist idiot on the news, he’s not marching down the blistering California streets protesting things that he believes aren’t right, he’s not on a phone call with Shiro reminding him to pay his phone bill– no, he’s spent the last year hacking and slashing through undead shitbrains and living shitbrains and trying to forget that they were both once “human”.

The day they all realize it’s been a whole year, there’s no missions. Everyone sits in the comfort of each other, and Lance strums at a guitar something somber he can’t remember. Life is hard, they just want to make a difference and find a fucking cure, and Allura recites the names of those who’ve fallen, and those she’d had to kill.

Lance whispers his mother’s name into the dark of the night, and the two of them sleep with restless souls– but at least they’re together.

It’s a little haunting when they all get back to business the next day as if nothing happened.

Lotor was their current top priority; Shiro decided to take the lead on handling Zarkon, allowing Allura to focus on the rising leader and his whereabouts. They can get some grasp of his character; according to many of the rescued prisoners, he was horrible in a sadistic, psychological way. Many faulted the aggressive trauma they’d experienced when they escaped to him, particularly due to the massive amounts of severe emotional and physical tortures after Lotor. It was unsettling in every way, listening to the manipulation, and Lotor’s obsession with physical tortuous methods for information prisoners would endure.

Lotor was not his favorite type of guy, and he was more than ready to put a bullet between his eyes when he had the chance.

When they finally pick up a lead on Lotor, it’s completely by accident. During one of Lance’s solo recon missions (he’s the one best suited for stealth missions because of his remarkable breath control and literal fairy feet), he’d overheard a conversation about Lotor’s “new shipments” coming into a temporary camp down in Brigham.

“That’s not too far from here,” Lance mumbles, nursing a cut on his arm he’d received during his escape, “Almost got caught on my way out, so I expect at least two days of Keith time until we go after him.”

“Go _after_ him?” Keith reels, all heads turning at the just-returned Cuban on the foot of Pidge’s bed. Allura’s eyebrows furrow, and she’s quick to shoot down his declare.

“You just got back from a mission, Lance. We don’t even have a team ready to deploy, and I certainly wouldn’t expect you to be leading something so incredibly dangerous. We’ve seen what Zarkon can do, and we can track his movements– but Lotor is entirely different! We can’t just march in there guns blazing and expect everything to go in our favor.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Lance clarifies, carding a hand through his sweaty locks– Keith bites his tongue, effectively preventing “god you are so fucking hot” from escaping him because _damn,_ he looked good with his hair pushed back, “which is why I’m volunteering. What better way to get to Lotor than to sneak in and just kidnap him? We don’t need a huge team or anything— I know enough about Galran bases by now, _including_ Lotor’s, may I add, so me and Keith can handle it. Right, Keith?”

“I mean, uh– yeah? I can sneak.”

“Wait, hold on, you can’t just take the reigns of this whole thing,” Shiro manages, crossing his arms over his chest. “Allura’s right, Lotor’s a loose canon. We’d be better off laying low until we’re certain we can handle him.”

“We’re not gonna get another chance like this! Lotor’s literally waiting for us in a gift basket!” 

“No, and that’s final, Lance,” Shiro’s eyes shoot towards Keith, “you too. Don’t think I didn’t notice you jumping on board so quick.”

Lance lets out an aggravated groan, stomping out the room and Keith darts his eyes between Shiro and the door before following after Lance. The last thing they needed is a camp war, and his— friend? boyfriend?— wasn’t exactly the type to let go of things. 

“Lance,” he calls, footsteps falling into place beside him, “ _Lance.”_

The Cuban whirls around, takes a lingering look at Keith’s face, then promptly drags him to the side of a building and smashes their lips together, wild grin on his face. “Oh, good. I was hoping you’d catch my drift.”

“Which is?” 

“You still up for taking down Lotor?” Lance asks, question lingering as a goofy smile takes over him. “You really don’t have to, but I’m going. I want to settle this, once and for all. Come back with Lotor hogtied in the back of a truck and revel in the glory.”

Keith considers this for a while, linking their pinkies together as they slide down to the floor and sit. There’s a lot of things that could go wrong– one of the Galra catching them, Lotor escaping, someone following them back to camp, but there’s also many things that weigh in their favor. Both he and Lance’s combined skill, and many recon missions under their belt, as well as ability to escape dangerous situations, and Lance’s prior knowledge of most Galra camps has the balance tipping. Finally, he relents, nodding his head. “Fine, I’m in.”

“Awesome!” Lance yelps, grin pulling at his face. “You’re okay to do this by tomorrow night? We’ll head out when Allura’s back in her room, but I’m really not sure how to actually sneak out without the guards noticing.”

Keith observes the camp, eyes roaming over every gate, flaw, and patrol that surrounded the area. There were a few places they could sneak out, but the problem lay within the 24/7 patrol since the Galra attack. If he played his cards right, though, they could get past them no problem and into Brigham. 

For that, they’d need a car, and Lance’s charming demeanor. 

“How good are you at distracting people?” Keith inquires, a sly grin morphing his concentrated expression, eyes sliding to meet Lance’s gaze.

“Keith, have I ever told you that I’m both aroused and fearful for my life whenever you form a plan that’s both reckless and brilliant?”

“Once or twice.”

–

They spend the next morning preparing to execute their plan. Waking up early in the morning when patrols are at their weakest, Lance uses his never-ending chatterbox to distract the guards while Keith sneaks their bags into one of the cars, hiding it in the brush away from prying eye. It was easy to take a car, considering the car lot was a never-ending revolving door of scavengers and busy bees. After that, they went about their day as normal as one could, especially when you were planning on potentially betraying your camp leader for the sake of impressing everyone.

All in a day’s work.

When sunset rolled around, the two of them converge at dinner to make final preparations. Neither of them expected to stay longer than two to three days, so meager rations were taken (stolen, sadly) and bottles of water were refilled and stowed inside the car. Maybe not the most sophisticated of infiltration missions, but it would have to do.

“The car’s hidden away, right?” Lance mumbled, sparing a glance at the high-point guards, perched on water tanks and tall buildings. Keith nods, leading the Cuban towards a secluded table. They would be alone, at least for a little bit; Pidge was still bedridden (much to her annoyance), Hunk and Shay were off being the heroes of the camp– as usual– and Shiro was nowhere to be seen. Their conversation would have to hurry before the man’s sixth sense caught wind of their plan.

“You know what to do, right?” Keith clarifies, gazing out towards the northern gates. Nerves fluttered around his stomach like butterflies, anxious but all the more excited to finally contribute further. Maybe it would strain his and Allura’s relationship, but in the end, capturing Lotor would significantly increase the chances of a win against the Galra’s slowly rising reign. Anything counts, at this point.

“Yeah. Distract them long enough for you to get in the car yourself, then call it a night-run that I was sent on. Then we’ll be on our merry way. Planning on making a pit stop before we go pay a visit to Lotor?”

“It’s too risky to hang around overnight. We’ll have to make due with the time we have– you have your flashlight?”

“Yup. I’m all good.”

Keith nods, poised to speak again when Shiro comes ambling over and he flashes a glimpse at Lance, indicating the newcomer. Shiro joins them with a pleasant smile, bowl in hand and the three exchange polite “hellos”. They fall into an awkward silence, Shiro obviously mulling over his choice of words before a sigh escapes the man.

“Listen, you two,” he starts, kneading the pads of his fingers against his head, “I’m sorry about what happened yesterday. I get where you were coming from, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything happened to you if I sent you out there. You understand, right?”

They both nod, guilt gripping at Keith’s everything at the thought of sneaking around like this. While he knows in the end, it’d do more good (hopefully enough to override the bad), and they’d be able to use Lotor to obtain vital information. So he swallows down his guilt, offering a gentle, but forced smile and manages out, “Yeah, we get it. It’s okay, you don’t have to worry about us.”

Shiro nods, and they finish their dinner; Shiro is the first to depart, waving goodbye to the pair. “You too stay safe, alright?”

“No promises,” Lance shoots back, and the man lets out a chuckle before wandering off to find Matt. Lance waits for a few moments, then turns back towards Keith and shoves his face into his hands. “Jesus, I feel horribleeee.”

“Me, too,” Keith agrees, fluctuating emotions in his heart. His brain told him this was the correct thing to do, but his heart screamed at him to never disappoint Shiro like he was going to, if he did this. He’s about ready to have an existential crisis on a dinner bench, but the smarter part of his brain says otherwise and takes Lance by the hand, dragging him towards the direction of the house.

It’s empty, so Keith pulls him onto the couch and they sit for a moment, composing themselves. A part of him still wants to think everything will be okay if they do this; but the other half is so, so scared of fucking up and having blood on his hands. The Korean knows better than to think such a way, because Lance is more than capable of handling things on his own. Keith could do this on his own, too– he didn’t need Lance to do this on his own, so why is he– 

“I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you into doing this, dude,” Lance mutters, hands folded in his lap and thumbs tapping against each other. “I just feel like you’re doing this because I’m doing it, but like– man, I don’t want you getting hurt around me– no, I don’t want you to get hurt because of me...you’re, you’re too special for that, you know? To break your arm or something because I wanted to learn how to somersault, or some stupid metaphor like that.”

Keith reels on him, eyes blazing and gripping at the denim of his pants. “You’re not pressuring me into anything, jesus, Lance! I’m– I’m not that type of guy,” oh shit, he can feel some word vomit coming up, “I-I don’t need to rely on anyone, I’m just, I’m doing this for everyone. So everyone can be okay, and-and safe, and I’m not doing it for _you,_ I’m doing it for me, but I don’t want to fuck up and have your blood on my hands. I care about you too much for my own good to let you get hurt, and I would’ve done this myself, I would and I will do it myself if it means you’re safe. If you got hurt, or, jesus fuck got _killed–_ I couldn’t...I couldn’t live with myself, Lance.”

Lance falls silent, words ebbing off his tongue and they sink into the couch, unspoken words lingering at their tongues but both aware of each other’s emotions: a big melting pot of feelings and pain and hurt and fumbling through stages of life together like babies. They _are_ babies– babies who care too much about their friends and each other.

“Both of us don’t want each other to get hurt, and want the other to leave,” Lance huffs, hand crawling to rest on Keith’s knee. The Korean looks up at him, with furrowed brows and is greeted with his soft smile. “Maybe we should watch each other’s backs?”

Keith lets out a groan, then a chuckle, then tips his head forward until it meets Lance’s. “I’d like that. Under one condition, though.”

“Tell me.”

“I get to drive.”

“You’re evil.”

When night begins to near, they start executing the plan. The basis of their Escape from Shiro includes a little one-on-one with Pidge. Lance sidles up at her bedside, fake tulip tucked into the breast pocket of the starch white button up. A grin pulls over him, and Pidge raises a quizzical brow in regards to his fancy get-up.

“Piidge,” he sing songs, taking her hand, “light of my life, star of my nights, I really need you to help me out tonight.”

“How so?”

“I’m trying to swoop Keith off his cute little butt tonight,” Keith stifles the choke of his throat in the palm of his hand, “and I really need you to cover for me. If Shiro asks where we are, tell him we picked up a shift on the walls. Please.”

She tuts, clicking her tongue before a (quiet) maniacal chuckle escapes her. “Holy shit, you’re gonna do it?”

“Uhh,” Lance fumbles, and Keith is unable to tell his expression. “Uh, yeah! I am! I’m gonna do it.”

“Nice. Well, have fun, you two,” Pidge mutters, making grabby hands at Lance so he adjusts her back on her mattress. Lance nods, and waves his fingers good-bye, and they’re off. 

It’s pleasantly easy to make it past the guards: Lance throws them a dazzling smile, established good nature having already taken root in the heart of camp, and jerks his head towards the gates. Meanwhile, Keith sneaks past them through a blind-spot of the camp, only accessible from the inside of the walls. He creeps towards the car, ducking into the passenger’s seat as Lance works his magic. They split up like this to avoid suspicion; word had already broke out in the camp about his jump to attack Lotor, and they would’ve been halted in their tracks if both of them had left together. So Keith sneaks out, while Lance leaves camp under the guise of running an overnight mission.

“I asked Allura earlier, and she’s cool with it,” he beams, climbing up the staircase to join the guards. “But between you and me, I’m getting Keith something out there.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yup. Keep it a secret, though,” he mutters, nodding a thank you as they kick down the ladder for them. “I’ll be back!”

The guards nod, watching him until he’s hit the floor, and soon enough they’re driving down the road without a hitch. Keith keeps one hand on the wheel, the other tracing along Lance’s palms and tapping out a beat he can’t quite remember the words to. Lance has already changed out of the stupid dress shirt and into a ragged baseball tee, and something about him is so breathtaking. They’re driving into a very dangerous situation, but his heart beats out of time for something else.

Lance spares a glimpse, lips curling into a smile as he admires the Korean. Keith’s ears feel hot under his gaze, even moreso when he presses his lips to his knuckles. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, hands gripping the steering wheel. “Just a little nervous.”

Lance nods, pulling his gaze back into the road and threading their fingers together. It’s a sweet enough gesture to calm his dancing nerves, allows him to focus on driving, and on what they’ll do when they reach Lotor. It’s quite a bit of a drive ahead of them, but it gives them ample time to reevaluate their plan. Just sneak in, take him, and get out as fast as they possibly could.

About forty minutes into their drive, Lance lets out a long, dejected sigh. It’s enough to drag Keith out of his stupor, and he ghosts a thumb along the top of his hand. “You okay, Lance?”

The man winces, then pulls his hand away. Leaning his face into his hands, Keith shoots him a bewildered look. 

“I can’t do this, man,” he mutters, hands massaging at his temples. Keith furrows his eyebrows, checking the road for any infected milling around before switching the lever to cruise control. “I really, really can’t.”

“We can turn around, Lance,” Keith begins, but the Cuban shakes his head. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me, I don’t–“

“Jesus, Keith, I’m in love with you.”

Everything sort of freaks out in succession. Keith’s hands jerk and swerve a bit, and the two of them let out a shriek as Keith veers towards the side of the road, slamming his break and pulling over as calmly as he can. He heaves, hands slipping from the wheel and leaning his head back against the seat. Lance is quiet, drumming his fingers along the dashboard.

“Lance– “

“I’m not reading– reading all of this wrong, am I? Oh, Christ, I am aren’t I?” he whispers, folding his arms over the dashboard and burying his head into it. 

Keith shakes his head furiously, heart pounding a mile a minute and cheeks ablaze. A cornucopia of thoughts swirl in his head, but the outstanding idea of _he likes me he likes me_ blares through a megaphone in his ears. It’s a lot to process, and sort of feels like an end-of-our-days statement. If they were in college, and Lance told him he loved him out of nowhere like that, Keith would call it an over-exaggerated crush and change schools in a moment of avid denial. They are not in college, though, and things really could end in any second, desperation and desire for something he could fall back on when he needs it guiding his words.

“You’re not that stupid, are you?” he says breathlessly, hands quaking as he grips his knees: an anchor. “Lance, all of this meant just as much to me as it did to you, I just– I’m bad at words. Speaking. A lot of things,” he falters, trying not to meet his gaze as the Cuban’s eyes peer out from his arms and towards Keith. “I-I really, really, really love you too, more than you think, Lance. I didn’t think I could, because shit fucking sucks and it’s probably gonna bite me in the ass, but I lo–”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Lance surges forward and their teeth clack a little, but something about it embodies that sense of honest desperation they both seem to resonate. Keith’s hand curl into the messy mop of brown hair, and the kiss turns into something more teasing, warm and soft, until they pull away. Lance’s lips are wet and swollen and the smile on his face is unlike any from before, so blinding with perfect teeth and Keith’s heart _aches._

“God, you’re pretty,” Keith croons, fingers caressing the man’s cheeks, noses smooshed together they were so close. Lance really was pretty– beautiful skin, freckles spackling his cheeks and forehead, litter of scars etched on his cheek and deep carved dimples and thin, arched brows. He was near damn perfect, and it made his little gay heart twist and turn wonderfully.

“C’mon,” Lance whispers, backing away from him and settling him back into reality. The smile on his face never wavers. “Let’s start heading back out.”

– 

Half an hour later, they’ve arrived in Brigham and have been scoping out the place for the past ten minutes. Lance keeps a keen eye on the area with his sniper, noting the various voices coming from the inside, as well as the plume of smoke creeping up into the sky. They’ve watched the patrol carefully from the shadows of the trees, and figured out the best entry into the camp. 

They wait until the guards make another round before moving in, creeping low on their haunches as they move into the camp. It is a bit of a struggle, when Keith is forced to pull down one of the guards behind the bushes, tightening his arm around the guard’s neck and squeezing until the man stops struggling. Lance furrows his brows, and Keith shakes his head. “I didn’t kill him,” he whispers, pushing Lance forward. “Just knocked him out.”

It’s a damn near miracle they’re able to come into the camp so smoothly. The Galra are off somewhere, chattering around the campfire and luckily enough, away from the two of them. Lance crouches behind a building, observing the area before pointing his hand towards the left of the fire. A lone tent sits, tall and foreboding against the flickering campfire. There’s no guard at the front of the tent, but it does face towards the camp.

“Two bottles of Gatorade bets that Lotor’s in there,” Lance utters, and the two of them cross the road to the other side of the street. They pull around to the other side of the tent, honing in on the back entrance, faced away from the other Galra. 

Keith takes the lead and the two of them shuffle towards the tent, keeping a cautious eye on the Galra. They reach the back, and aren’t spotted nor caught in the glow of the fire. Keith’s breath hitches, fist clenching around the pistol behind his belt. They take another lingering look around them, then Keith nods, and they push into the tent.

Although, they really don’t make it.

There’s a surging pain crawling up every nook of his body, hot and electric fired into his spine. His body seizes involuntarily, tensing outrageously to the point Keith feels every bone in his body would snap. He can smell skin _burning,_ and his teeth are clenched so hard they might shatter. Seconds later, his seizing stops and he keels over, limbs twitching and cooked skin wafting over his nose. His muscles feel cramped, and he really can’t move anything except his head. Lance is in a similar matter, breathing horribly and Keith tries to ignore the blood rushing into his head when he’s forced to stand up. He struggles feebly, arms wrenched back behind his back. His fight-or-flight instincts kick in until a gun cocks near his ear, stopping him rigid. 

Everything still sort of hurts when he’s gained enough mobile control of his limbs. Keith lolls his head over to Lance, who’s putting as much distance as he possibly can from the muzzle of the pistol pressed on his neck. It sends a chill up his belly, and he fights his gaze from Lance into the broad expanse of the tent. A lone man stands, facing their direction with a cruel, awful grin playing on his expression, and his demeanor screams danger. His hands are folded over his lap, cascades of white hair pulled into a ponytail and leaning against a collapsable table. It’s so unnerving in an inexplicable way, and Keith refuses to acknowledge the way his stomach drops to his feet. 

“Ah,” the Galra finally voices, strolling towards them until he’s only steps away from the pair. Keith grimaces, teeth curled like a rabid animal in his direction. “It’s nice how you thought you two were being so sneaky.”

“Fuck you,” Keith spits out, earning a slam to the back of his head with the butt of a pistol. He groans, head sent into disarray to his still buzzing brain. 

“How rude,” the man sighs, leaning his cheek onto his hand, “I was beginning to think we could be friends, don’t you?”

“As if,” Lance wheezes beside him, and that gets a shove and a knock to the head for that. The Galra laughs, running Keith’s blood cold as he ruffles Lance’s hair. Everything screams in his head to get his filthy fucking hands off of Lance, but the logical part of him forces him back to prevent further injury.

“Oh, you’re funny,” the Galra says, then taps a finger against his chin. Seconds later, he gasps, and the arm wrenching his own back tightens considerably. “I almost forgot to introduce myself! I’m Lotor, pleasure to meet you here. It’s fate, isn’t it?”

Lotor sighs wistfully, sending a glance to the guards who pull his wrists back, until an unfamiliar click resounds from behind him, and a cold metal bites into his wrists. He hisses as handcuffs tighten considerably into his skin, rubbing them raw and he’s forced to his knees beside Lance. Lotor lets out a cluck of his tongue, boots clacking against the gravel.

“Yes, fate! We’ve been tracking you since that little incident happened with Zarkon’s favorite prisoner; see, they were en route right into my hands, but you incapacitated poor Morvok before we could even figure out you were there! Didn’t realize that would come back to bite you in the ass, I figure. No, see, it was easy to figure out where that little camp of yours was after that! We had a few men down there to begin with, imagine that. Then we launched that little invasion, and I heard one of your girls was nearly _killed?_ My, if I was there I would’ve put her out of her little misery. Wouldn’t have even had the chance to save her, but I wasn’t there.”

Lance growls out at him, jerking up in an attempt to lunge at him onto to get a boot planting itself in his back, smashing him to the ground. The heel digs into his back, before slamming down once more with a painful stomp. Lance hisses in pain, cheek pressed into the pavement and willing himself not to tear out Lotor’s spine with his bare hands.

“And you!” Lotor cries, stooping forward and yanking Lance back by the head. “You’re my favorite, considering my men are stupid enough not to notice you sneaking around the camps. I would’ve loved to shove a screwdriver between your pretty little eyes, but you were so impressive, I just couldn’t. Here we are now, and oh, I have big plans for you both!

“The scraggly young fellow with a complex for getting himself into trouble and a self-sacrificing, egotistical idiot, from what I hear. You’d be surprised how easy it is to get into your walls, become one of your own. Who’s the fellow we have on the inside?” he glances at his guards, who shrug until he snaps his fingers. “Ah, of course! Calvin, he’s rather impressive, but I think he’s let up his time. When I notify that little rag-tag group of fighters you call Voltron that you’re in my care, now, I’ll be sure to drop his name. No need for him.”

“In your care?” Keith retorts, earning Lotor’s attention with a lifted brow. “Fucking try it, asshole.”

“Such a mouth!” he cries, then with the force of a thousand suns, reels his fist back and sends it into Keith’s cheek. His jaw flounders and he groans, head drooping as a throbbing pain sprouts him his cheek. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’ll leave an ugly bruise, want another on the other side? Hah! Just kidding.”

He stands back up on his feet, ordering the two of them back on their knees until he points at their necks. “Now, I’m terribly sorry, but we soon have to move out of the area. Considering most of my cargo can’t move while they’re in our trucks, I’ll have to do the same for you here. Not to fret, your friends will hear soon enough about this endeavour! I’ll send them a lovely voice message and invite them to my doorstep. That is, if they ever decide to risk coming here.”

Keith winces at the sharp pain jabbing into his neck, and a flood of exhaustion sinks into his bones. Everything feels numb, far, far too numb and he sees Lance slump back forward with a thud. Keith struggles weakly, pistol still pressed to his neck until it hits him last minute.

Tranquilizers.

Darkness washes over him like a blanket, and just like that, he’s out.

–

A guard waits patiently outside the walls of the camp, dressed casually to avoid suspicion should he be caught prematurely. The young blond meets him there soonafter– Calvin, and raises a skeptical brow at his sudden appearance.

“What’s the deal?” he mutters, gesturing towards the guard.

“Lotor has a word for you to pass onto Allura,” he begins, slipping a tape recorder to the blond, “He has instructed that you stay present in the room and feign shock on his behalf; pretend to be shocked that he’s captured your little friends.”

Calvin huffs, but nods, turning on his heel and scouting out for Allura, trying to look winded and worried. A camper points towards Pidge’s house, mumbling something about her and Matt Holt checking up on the girl. He nods, then psyches himself up for a stellar performance. He barrells up the steps, earning an immediate look of disgust from Pidge but one of concern from the other two. He pulls his best face of panic, holding out the recorder with a quivering hand and gulping down his worry.

“O-one of the guards found th-this outside the walls,” he manages out, leaning against the wall and heaving. “A-A man gave it to him. It’s for you.”

Allura furrows her brows, pre-established concern draping her like a blanket. The camp had already been in disarray from Keith and Lance’s impromptu disappearance for the past two days, differentiating stories spreading from every corner of Voltron. Allura suspected Galra; Calvin knew the truth.

She shares a look with Matt, before her thumb skims over the play button. A beat of silence passes, before a familiar voice fills his ears.

_“I assume that my dearest Allura will be hearing this firsthand! Well, good news. Your friends are alive and kicking! Ah, well not so much the first part. See, I’ve had them with me these past couple of days, and well, you know what I do to those who decide to fight back! Keith’s in rather bad shape, I can’t tell if his collarbone should be bending like this. I assume you’ll need some proof of life, hm?”_

The voice changes, a gargled reply from Lance resounding in a weak, “fuck you”. Keith spits somewhere they can’t tell from, which gets a disgusted gasp from Lotor and a sickening crack over the tape. Calvin shudders, thankful that it’s not him on the receiving end. Eventually, he wheezes out his own name and it returns to Lotor.

 _“See? Alive! Now, I’m certain you’ll want a full scale rescue mission to happen down there at that pitiful excuse of a camp. No worries, I’m leading you right to me– everything about my location is in that old Brigham camp of mine. I will warn you, rescue will not be easy. I don’t let go of my playthings easy, now. I’d take your time and figure out your angle, and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll put a bullet in every single one of you, starting with these two. Might I mention I’ve got a few more of your missing members? They’re grateful for the small break, as all my attention is on these two fellows. I’ve yet to break them,”_ a shrill cry of pain resounds from Lance, _“but soon enough, they’ll squeal like pigs. On that note, I pleasantly await your arrival! In the meantime, I’ll have enough fun weaseling information about your camps out of these two cuties. It’s almost pitiful how much Lance avoids telling me anything by saying how much he loves Keith. He’s got beautiful eyes, a goofy smile, blah, blah, I’m beginning to think I should slice his pretty neck open, see how much he can talk about Keith then. Ah, no worries, they’re too much fun to do that yet!”_ Lotor’s voice trails off with another laugh, and only the strangled breaths of the two camp members resonates over the mic. Finally, Lotor picks up again.

_“Now, one more thing. You may be wondering how I’ve so meticulously planned out every part of this, knew that they were coming, the attack, all of it. See, I’ve had an informant! His name’s Calvin, and he’s had a lot of fun there. Heard he’s taking a liking to messing with that girl one of my men shot, Pidge? Well, sorry about that, I’ll make sure she feels no pain when I pay a visit to your camp sooner or later. Anyways, Calvin, sorry to break it to you, but this is me saying I no longer need your services. Have fun!”_

The audio cuts out and Calvin pales, hands shaking as he picks his gaze off the floor and towards Allura. Her piercing gaze is set on him, Matt standing protectively over his sister and Calvin makes a break for it, feet flying until he’s out the door. To no avail, as Allura tackles him with a war cry and sends her fist into his face. 

“Now,” she grits out, dagger pressed in his neck and eyes filled with fury. “I’m guessing you know all about Lotor, don’t you?”

Calvin winces, and Allura pulls her fist back and effectively breaks his nose with the punch, managing to knock him out with the hit.

Allura has some work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhhh that happened. keith and lance do dumb shit a lot but that really tops the cake.
> 
> forewarning: the next chapter will NOT be pretty. it's gonna contain a lot of horrible shit, ie physical torture, emotional manipulation and torture, but you can be reassured that NO sexual assault is going to occur of any form. i dont roll that way.
> 
> that being said, please please PLEASE prepare yourself for the next chapter. it is fucked up, bloody, and horrible in every way as it does not skip the details of the graphic nature of it. you are more than welcome to skip it, but i will warn you it delves deep into the mind of keith, lance, and provides vital information for the rest of the story. i can summarize the chapter for those who cannot read it.
> 
> thanks for reading.


	12. to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: physical violence and torture [beating, slashing/cutting someone, forceful denailing, burning, stabbing, drowning, branding, hanging upside down/breaking bones, dehydration, starvation] and emotional torture [manipulation, sensory deprivation, panic attacks, seizure mentioned, symptoms of ptsd touched on] and background character death
> 
> WRITERS NOTE: this chapter was written not only to develop plot further, but to hone my skills as a writer. under NO circumstances do i condone this nor do i enjoy writing it— it is fucked up, but it pushes me to write things like this so i can broaden my skillset. thank you.
> 
> you have been warned. feel free to skip this chapter and ask for a summary if you're unable to handle traumatic situations.

When Keith and Lance are thrown into a dingy, peeling closet space in a warehouse miles away from Brigham, they realize chances to fight back are minimal.

They’d arrived in the city of Logan fitted into dog kennels, drowsy from the tranqs and banged up from the ride to the city. Keith wasn’t too sure what was going on, but there wasn’t enough time to process it before the only light is the tiny light bulb hanging above them. There really isn’t time to process _anything;_ it’s only a short amount of time before they’re dragged into an expanse of gray floors and garage doors, and Keith’s eyes meet with the rows of prisoners who look all too afraid. A glint of something dances in their eyes, but he can’t pinpoint it before he’s shoved onto his knees beside Lance.

A rather cruel voice resounds in his ears, but it’s nothing that strikes him as important. Probably among the hundreds of Galra soldiers all roped into Lotor’s conniving plans, who’ve been let into his flock as if it was comparable to living. 

“I’m sure you all recognize the name Voltron by now!” the guard barks, and the row of prisoners flinches back. “Yes, yes, Voltron! A promise of protection, yet here you are– and who do you have to blame but the people who have offered their hand only to strike you down again?”

He cackles, swinging his baton around until it nestles itself under Keith’s chin. The grin on his face is sadistic, and it sends a chill up his spine. He has half a mind to break out of his bonds and kill every last Galra in this room, but he’s more worried for the prisoners than himself. Instead, he snarls up at the soldier, wrenching his head out of the way only for it to be wrassled forward by the grimy hand.

“Look, see, you lot. It’s one of those Voltron pricks, and I’m here to offer you a chance to better yourselves! An eye for an eye,” he pauses, rising back to his feet and holds out his baton to one of the bound prisoners. They cringe, reeling away from the weapon and the guard laughs. “Just one hit. Break a bone and you’ll be commended by Lotor himself!”

The prisoner shakes his head, muttering, “I won’t do it,” under his breath. This earns no brownie points from the guard, who scoffs and backhands the man, harsh slap ringing out in the warehouse. 

“Fine,” the Galra spits, tapping the baton against the palm of his hand, once, twice, before he turns and lunges at Keith. The baton meets his clavicle with a sickening crack, and he doesn’t even need to see the wound to see that it’s broken. He yelps in pain, fiery red hot pain crawling around his left shoulder and bites back another cry when the Galra presses his boot against the break. God, it hurts so fucking bad, and they barely just got there. 

Lance makes a leap towards him, a scream of “Keith!” leaving him before a guard knocks him down with the butt of his gun. Collarbone-breaking Galra reels towards Lance, stomping against his forearms and the Galra sends his boot flying into his abdomen more times than Keith can count. He’s almost certainly broken a rib or two, with the force of the kicks, but he can’t focus too hard because of the searing pain in his shoulder. 

They relent, eventually, leaving Lance in a wheezing pile of pain. Keith can already see the bruises forming from the exposed slivers of skin, and can’t help the whisper that leaves him. 

“Lance, baby,” he croaks, soft, and the Galra huffs, turning his attention back to the prisoners. 

Lance nods, slow and painfully, but Keith doesn’t get much time to dwell on it before a fist connects with his jaw. 

It’s unnerving when he meets his gaze with the assailant, and the familiar sight of a prisoner uniform greets him. It’s terrifying, sends every nerve in his body of alert, especially when that glint comes in full force. It’s familiar, and Keith knows that look because he always carries it on his missions– it is the face of one who craves revenge against those who’ve wronged them.

Keith is left with little time to stay in his horror, because suddenly groups of prisoners are whaling on Lance and him just for the chance to feel a lick of freedom. Keith doesn’t understand, it leaves his skull in mind-numbing pain that he can’t source from the hits or his own stress. Whatever, his lip is busted and he’s glad they’ve managed to avoid the majority of his face. 

When it does end, he’s lying on the ground in horrible pain. His lungs hurt, and he feels like he’s a piece of tenderized meat right afterwards. Everything screams pain, and his collarbone is so maliciously fucked up, and then they are dragged off again to the closet.

The brunt of it is over, but it hits him shortly that they’d been getting ragged on for what was hours. The sun had pulled over the sky, which was definitely not there when they arrived, and Keith takes one more longing look at daylight before he’s shoved into a cramped room with his boyfriend.

Against his better judgement, he starts checking over Lance with his good arm– which isn’t that great, in comparison. Lance’s wrist is mangled and bends at an unnatural angle, but the worst of it comes from the ragged breaths under his shirt. A quick once over tells him, yup, Lance’s ribs are cracked in a few spots. He doesn’t get to finish his diagnosis before Lance is shoving him back, and he’s the one being checked over.

When they finish their minute of coddling, Keith checks the door. Locked, obviously, and it’s the type of lock he can’t pick with a bobby pin. He sighs, deflated, and slumps against the uncomfortable wall of shelves and toilet paper.

They catch their breath, pain sprouting from every nook of their bodies, and Lance sinks against the right side of his chest. He looks exhausted, but Keith isn’t too sure he’s different. They both look downright horrible.

“Hey,” he breathes, shaky against his shoulder and Keith musters out a noise of response. “This sucks.”

“Yeah,” Keith voices, reaching his arm around Lance and lacing fingers through his hair. His scalp is bloody. “It does.”

They don’t realize this is the easiest it will be in the following weeks.

– 

The first day without food or water is manageable.

The both of them were used to surviving off of nothing, so they play a game of who has the bigger bruise until that gets boring. Then they count the amount of useless things around the closet, which includes a hackey sack, four bottles of Windex, packing tape, and various nuts and bolts. That gets just as boring, and then they just wait.

And wait,

and wait,

and wait.

Keith’s mouth feels dry, throat tense and a frog caught in the pit of his esophagus. Lance keeps tasting his own tongue, trying to salvage any sense of moisture in the cramped space and empty air. It does nothing to help his senses with the dust flitting past his nose, and he can’t prevent the sneeze that escapes him. Lance huffs out a laugh, uttering out, “you’re cute,” then they resume their waiting. Nothing ever comes, until Lance bangs his foot against the door and claims he needs to pee.

He’s wrenched out of the closet, the guards preventing the two of them leaving together and Keith is left in his lonesome. He isn’t really sure how many minutes pass, because he’s trying to remember when he last drank water; maybe at lunch yesterday? He didn’t know, man, this room felt a lot more constricting without Lance– 

He returns then, kicked into the closet and Keith is yanked out before he can ask if he’s doing okay. The blinding light of the outside blazes in his eyes, and he squints as he’s dragged out into the open. Oh, lucky him, Lotor is standing right fucking there talking to some Galra over a map when he notices Keith.

“Oh, they did a number on you!” he comments, waving off the guard who’s got the handcuff links between his fist (ow, Jesus, his clavicle feels like hell). Lotor strides beside him, following the guard’s lead and the sadistic fuck tries to make small talk with him, after he knowingly let a band of vengeful prisoners beat the shit out of him like it was Christmas and he was a neatly wrapped present. “You looked so much nicer yesterday! I mean, you won’t be looking any better once I send out my little message to Allura. I’ll have to record that, soon, won’t I? Ah, no matter. How’re you and Lance? Taking ample time to enjoy your living space?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking great,” Keith hisses, eyes darting away from his companion when his handcuffs are unlocked. Jesus, it’s fucking weird to pee when he’s standing next to a guy who’s more than willing to slit his neck any second. He tries to avoid as much eye contact as possible, but Lotor just keeps talking about jack shit and Keith just wants to get out of there.

The moment he zips up his pants and for some odd reason, is forced to douse his hands in hand sanitizer to avoid the “spread of germs”, he’s falling into line beside the guard and trying to get as far away as possible. It’s not very easy, and he’s grateful when the psychopath makes his leave when they enter the warehouse.

He’s tossed back into the closet, landing on his side with a searing pain bursts out of him from the jostling movement. Lance is on him quickly, leaning Keith against his chest and being so sweet and gentle despite the fucked up situation. It’s enough solace for him, and their day is spent as such. Sleeping, wounded, hopeful for rescue.

The next two days are equally as uneventful. They’ve gotten a solo cup of water to share over the course of the days, but the hunger and dehydration had begun to settle in. The room was stuffy, bathroom breaks were often only used to get a semblance of fresh air, and every inch of their bodies ached with movement. Keith’s collar bone was jutting out, blooming reds and blues surrounding the area. You could _see_ the bone, pushing up against his skin and he did his best to keep still without the help of a sling– but fuck, it hurt so badly.

When the third day has rolled around and after they’ve been forced to record something with Lotor, things change. The morning of the day begins with the two of them being forced out the closet and into chairs, wrists strapped down by thick leather and fingers splayed open. Lotor is there, greeting them with a cruel smile.

He doesn’t say a word, but instead leans in to look at their fingers. He taps against their fingernails, humming a tune Keith can’t place. He goes from Keith to Lance, treating their fingernails in the same manner before a satisfied hum rumbled out of him.

“Yours are better, Keith. Thicker, more resilient,” he comments, turning back to a tiny tray on a lone table. His hands dance along the tray, and Keith can’t tell what is on the table. It’s evident enough that it’s a weapon with the clatter of metal, and his questions are answered when the man brandishes a pair of shiny pliers. The weapon makes a clack as he turns back around, leaning against the table and taps the pliers against the tray. “Keep his fingers open.”

Keith’s hands are wrenched open again, forced into place by the guards. His middle finger is kept still between the bruising grip of the Galra’s forefinger and thumb, and he tries to yank his hand away to no avail.

Lotor saunters over to him, tapping the pliers against Keith’s forehead and meeting his gaze with a cruel smile. It’s haunting, and he doesn’t get time to spit out something clever or witty before the pliers clamp around his fingernail, and _pulls._

It’s excruciating pain, red hot crawling up his hand as blood gushes out from underneath the nail. The nail tears off of it’s bed, pulling up and sliding out from underneath his skin and feels all too horrible. Lotor wiggles the nail between the pliers, admiring his handiwork and Keith can only bore his eyes at his middle finger. Blood is dripping from the defiled nail, and red, fleshy muscle throbs painfully from the site. He nearly pukes from the sight itself, because everything about it feels so wrong. Then he pulls _another,_ out of his ring finger and it’s just as horrible and bloody as the first.

A noise of disgust pulls from Lotor as he displays the nails to Lance, who’s leaning as far away as he can from the man and curls his fingers in tightly. Keith swallows, trying to keep his mouth shut and prevent voicing his pain– if Lotor thought something was gross, he wouldn’t do it. Plain and simple.

Lotor sets down the pliers and looms over them, arms folded over his chest as he regards the pair in front of them. No long after, a blindfold is procured and Keith’s vision is covered. He feels himself pulled out of the chair and forced to his knees, wrists thrown back into a pair of handcuffs. Lotor starts that fucking _humming_ again, circling around him with clicks of his boots and Keith feels like a cornered animal.

“Stop– stop fucking _humming,”_ he spits, because the humming is so apparent in his ears. He can’t even feel his hands, just the grit of the pavement biting into his knees and the heightened sense of hearing feeding that stupid humming into his ears– it’s infuriating.

Lotor laughs, and a snap of his fingers pulls a new noise to his ears; a song, following the same tune as his humming. The strum of a guitar rolls out, then a man’s voice erupts with lyrics about a clown and emotions. “I like to play this when I’m working,” Lotor says, wistful as the footsteps fade away from him. “ _See that funny little clown,_ by Bobby Goldsboro. It’s a good song, indeed.”

Suddenly, there’s a grunt of pain from his companion, blaring in his ears while that stupid fucking song plays. It keeps on repeating over and over, moments of white noise replaced with Lance’s pained wheeze. Another grunt escapes from Lance, then a shriek as a sizzling noise fills his ears. It sounds like meat cooking, smells like flesh burning and Keith reels his head around desperately. 

_No one knows he’s cryin’, no one knows he’s dyin’ on the inside…_

“The fuck are you doing to him?!” he growls, and Goldsboro’s voice just increases in volume. It does nothing to mask the pain behind Lance’s howls of pain, mutters of “fuck, fuck, fuck” pulling from under his breath. It’s so loud, and he’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there because that song has been playing on repeat so long he’s forgotten when it stops and ends. 

Sound escapes him when a red hot sensation presses into his back, searing hot and blazing into his skin. Lotor chuckles, and a statement of “He sure can take the heat!” resounds before that same heat presses into the junction of his neck and shoulder. It burns deep, and the metal stays there until it’s beginning to cool again. There’s a throbbing hot pain in his shoulder, and he’s convinced it’s burned a hole into his neck.

 _This funny little clown,_ Keith can only hear that fucking song now when pain rings throughout his body as a cold, hard metal slams against his already broken clavicle, effectively shattering it, and he can feel the bone rise and press harder against his skin. Can’t even hear his own fucking voice, _you never used to see him around,_ Lance’s screech of pain, a roll of “no, porfavor–“ whining out of him like a wounded child, then another crack, _without his girl beside him!_

“Please,” Keith whispers, when the toe of a boot crushes against his bruised ribs, “fuck, don’t–”

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. He’s losing count how many times that damn boot slams deep into his lungs. Stomp. Stomp.

The music stops. Keith’s blindfold is removed and he blinks in his surroundings. Certainly time has passed, it’s brighter outside but the worst of it is when he’s met with Lance’s face. No care for his own well-being, he tries to count all of Lance’s injuries up in his head.

A broken leg, obvious swelling protruding from the calf of his left leg. Left arm dislocated, set behind his back and twitching in pain. The worst comes from the burns; obvious work of a scalding tire iron, shoved deep into his skin; there’s red suctions of burned skin, formed in perfect circles against his neck and chest, having burrowed a hole past his t-shirt. The slivers of skin that are visible are red, still smoking if it was even possible, beginning to brown at the edges. It’s horrific enough, and even moreso when he notices that three of Lance’s fingernails have been pulled out.

Keith croaks out something, and it sort of sounds like Lance’s name. The Cuban looks up, expression void of emotion and just haunting, haunting exhaustion painted into his eyes. He’s hurting, and it’s enough to make Keith’s blood fire and heart hurdle into a frenzy.

“You fucking– fucking touch him again,” he utters, dripping with venom as his fists curl behind his back, “I’ll kill you, Lotor. I’ll cut off your goddamn head.”

Lotor laughs, brushing off the statement when the guards advance to knock Keith out into Valhalla. Instead, he crouches down to his height, tapping a crowbar against his cheek. “That’s cute,” he coos, then reels the weapon up, sending the crowbar claw-first into his thigh. It _digs,_ deep into his thigh and he can already feel the warm blood soaking his jeans. It does nothing to deter the pain, though, because that crowbar is imbedded deep into his skin, and Lotor _twists._ “Your little boy toy said the same thing, when we came at you with that iron. Guess you couldn’t hear him over the song, hm?”

Keith against his better judgement sneers, the crowbar is yanked out of his thigh with a squelch of muscle and tissue numbing the nerves. He’s not even sure if he can get up, when the guards try to pull him to his feet and his leg just lays limp, helpless. 

“Anywho, make sure you two rest up! Tomorrow is the start of your interrogation,” Lotor calls, tutting his fingers in a wave before turning on his heel. Keith is still limpid against the floor.

The guard scoffs, grabbing a fistful of his hair and dragging him, tension pulling at his scalp as he’s shoved into the closet alongside Lance. No medical aid, nothing– just a fucking hackey sack and Windex.

Lance makes a move to wrap Keith’s thigh, moving his shoulder only to groan in pain. It’s still dislocated, slinging lower than his right, and there’s no way they’d be able to do anything with the way it’s injured. It leaves him no choice; he will have to relocate it.

He’s kind of done it, before; it was Pidge’s arm and they had way more space than this, and they weren’t both injured beyond comprehension. Keith also wasn’t missing two fingernails, which have stopped bleeding but hurt like hell when he moves or presses anything. 

“Lance,” he coos, soft and quiet and caring as the man meets his eyes; they share a moment, lips tilting into a chaste kiss before it’s back to business. “Lance, I-I gotta set that. I gotta set your shoulder– think we can do that?”

The Cuban nods, swallowing hard as he’s instructed into a lying position. His legs have to rest against the door, because he’s too damn tall and Keith wiggles behind him with what little room they have. 

“Fuuuck,” Lance mutters, as Keith presses his upper arm into his side, bending the limb into a 90-degree angle to properly relocate it. Keith tips his forehead to him, counting off before he slowly, slowly pulls up. Lance’s other arm flails, fist clenched around the metal shelves beside his head. There’s an audible click when his shoulder is set again, and a huff of relief pulls out of his boyfriend. There’s obvious discomfort evident, but there’s no time to dwell– Keith needs his thigh fixed, and fast.

“‘kay, babe,” the Cuban whispers, pulling the injured leg into his lap to elevate it enough to handle the blood. “I’m gonna have to– gonna have to check the damage, so let me do that.”

He unbuttons his jeans, and normally in any other situation Keith would be elated, but there is a crowbar shaped hole in his thigh that needs to be assessed. Lance scours the shelves, trying to find any semblance of a cloth to stop the bleeding. There is one, but it’s the size of his hand and it only does enough to wipe away the blood and drape it over his wound. He presses the cloth down into the wound, keeping it in place and moving Keith’s jeans back onto him. They still need something to wrap around it to create pressure, but there’s nothing left on the shelves.

Lance just pulls off his shirt, a whine escaping him when his shoulder is jostled and he wraps the material tight around his thigh. It’s enough, but now Lance is shirtless and Keith can’t bare to look at the damage.

Bruises and burns spatter on his chest and torso like a painting, swelling around his ribs and cuts of skin from the various hardships they faced. Keith’s hands touch soft against his chest, and Lance winces, but laces his fingers between the Korean’s own and lays them gently between the two of them. He turns his head, stomping his foot against the doorframe before bellowing out, “Look, I get this isn’t the Hamptons, but could I get a shirt, please, dude? I don’t even ask for fuckin’ food!”

A grunt and a kick resound from the door, and Lance scoffs, muttering curses under his breath until a swath of material is tossed in his face and the door slams shut again. It’s dark gray, and the words “I ♥ NEVADA” scrawl across it in bulky white lettering. It’s enough to drag a chuckle out of Keith, pained against his throbbing ribcage and Lance pulls on the shirt.

“Better than nothing,” he mutters, and lies back on the floor. It’s decades more comfortable than the shelves, but it’s hard to rest when your thigh still hurts like a bitch.

Lance pulls Keith’s legs into his lap, resting them across his own until his feet touch the corners and they lay, side by side. They both struggle to breath and stay comfortable, and it’s worse in Lance who’s taken the brunt of the rib injuries. It’s gonna be hell when they manage an escape and finally heal, but the damage done now only seems to get worse. Keith’s nearly gotten used to the state of discomfort, and dull pain.

Lance ghosts his fingers along Keith’s hip, ragged breaths whistling from under his breath. His head tilts back against the shelves and sighs, and Keith tucks his head into the Cuban’s chest. They’re soft and gentle with each other, nothing like the brutality they’d faced in the warehouse. Keith isn’t sure he could bear being alone in this situation– let alone Lance.

“Endure and survive,” Lance mutters, curling his fingers tight around Keith’s waist. The Korean offers a confused look, and a huff drags out of Lance. “It’s from a video game. We can play it if we ever get electricity again.”

Keith nods, silent, and burrows further into Lance. He’s exhausted, so very, very exhausted and his brain works twice as hard to keep him functioning. He’s not sure of how much time has passed in the closet, sanity held together by the glue that was Lance. He’d been ready to snap back in the warehouse, ready to start frothing at the mouth and fight tooth and nail to bust him and Lance out. It didn’t happen, because he’d been rendered absolutely useless when the blindfold came and the music started.

God, that music. It sends an involuntary chill up his spine and Lance rubs his back, glancing at him in concern.

“Sorry,” Keith mutters, darting his eyes away from the dark blue. “I– that song Lotor played really bothered me.”

“I noticed,” Lance replies, and brushes his fingers through the mop of black hair. “I’ve never seen you act like that. You looked...so small, Keith. So terrified.”

“It was.” Keith pinches the hem of his shirt, and breathes, wary, “Not being able to see you. I could hear you, but I heard that song too, and I just– I couldn’t handle it. It was bad.”

Lance nods, and lets his fingers massage deep into the Korean’s scalp. Keith’s eyes trail from the strong chin, down the heather gray of his shirt and to his other hand. It rests gingerly on his chest, dried blood streaked down his fingers. Swelling had gone down and they’d managed to clean off the viscera right with the remnants of Lance’s shirt. Both of their mangled fingers were void of nail, and the pull of pain that strained his hand every time it moved was enough to keep him uncomfortable. 

“Hey,” Lance mutters, and presses a soft kiss to his temple. “We should get some sleep, okay? We can worry about our gross fingers when we get back.”

Keith nods, and careful as he can, leans his head up to share a final, sweet, chaste kiss. They huddle together for warmth and grapple their arms around each other as securely as they can. Just as Keith is beginning to doze off, he whispers into the crook of his neck, “I love you.”

Lance’s fingers grip tighter around Keith’s waist. “I love you too, Keith.”

– 

Hell comes in the form of Lotor swinging the door open midday. He’s got a wicked smile, and their uninjured fingers curl against each other protectively. They’d been long awake, served a cup of fruit as breakfast which they’d wolfed down faster than they’d like to admit. Lotor taps his fingers together, and they’re yanked out of the closet.

Keith’s able to walk on his own by now. His leg still feels numb, but the bleeding had stopped and he was lucky no major arteries were hit. Other than that, he’s feeling relatively better– if better means anything more than a constant dull pain. 

Panic flares up in his chest when Lance is yanked away and placed across from him. Lotor circles the pair like a vulture, wicked smile curled over his lips. He finally settles between them, eyes painted with an unreadable expression. 

“Gentlemen,” he begins, and a scraping noise resounds from behind Lance. A barrel is pushed in, heavy and sloshing, and the cover is soon after pulled off. Lotor strides to the barrel, running his finger along the edge and stopping when he’s reached the other side. He turns to Lance with that same smile, then Keith. “Here’s your one chance to get out of this, boys! I’m going to ask you a few simple questions, and if you don’t answer, we’ll have to try some unconventional methods. Sound good?”

“Fuck off,” Keith sputters, and a laugh bellows out of Lotor. He turns his attention back on Lance, who’s looking at the barrel and subconsciously licking his dry, cracked lips. They hadn’t had water in a while, and a barrel full of it is enough to remind him of the severe dehydration they’d experienced the past days. Four days and all they’d had is a stupid tiny cup of water. 

“Lance,” Lotor says, and pulls his hands behind his back, folding them. “I’d like to start with you. Tell me, how many camps does Voltron have, and where are the biggest? It’s easiest to weasel information out of those who’ve been so used to the mediocrity of their lives, don’t you think? Snuff out their hope and you can get just about anything out of anyone. The bigger the camp, the weaker your members. I like to hit the biggest camps.”

“Y’know, Keith’s really pretty, prettiest guy I’ve ever seen in my life,” Lance spits, eyes sliding over to Lotor with a gaze of pure menace. “That tell you enough about our camps? I’ve been so busy looking at Keith I forgot to look at where I’ve been.”

Lotor’s eyebrow twitches, a slight of annoyance; the first Keith had seen. The Korean chuckles under his breath, and mutters, “Don’t even bother asking me shit. I won’t say a fucking thing.”

“Oh?” Lotor’s teeth clench and fists curl tighter around the barrel’s edge, “That’s too bad. Since both of you are so adamant on telling me a single thing, I suppose we’ll have to do this the hard way. Lance, you’re up first, congratulations!”

Lance is yanked towards the barrel, arms pulled tight behind his back and Keith can _feel_ the pain he must be in; it’d be no surprise if his arm had dislocated once more. It hadn’t been given the proper rest time it needed, and Lance just needed his fucking rest because god dammit he has broken ribs, a fucked up arm, he’s missing three fingernails– and they both just need a _break._

Keith’s silent plea is left unanswered, and Lance is settled over the edge of the barrel. He’s still struggling, legs flailing and trying to knock over the barrel but the guard grips at his scalp, pulling hard and a whimper bubbles out of him. Keith’s tongue feels heavy sitting in his mouth, but the way Lance is looking at him prevents any further words.

 _I don’t want you to get hurt,_ he resonates, and Keith’s mouth flounders like a dying fish. He can feel his long constrict, extreme stress rushing in every pore of his body, every inch flooded with pure panic and against his better judgement, he fights.

The guards must’ve been distracted or _something,_ because he’s able to knock his head back and slam it into the Galra’s nose, a pained groan heard from behind him. Keith jumps to his feet, ramming straight into the Galra holding Lance back. He knocks both of them over successfully, ready to pounce on Lotor when a flurry of guards throw him down. His head meets the concrete with a brain-rattling force, knocking the wind out of him and ears left ringing. He can vaguely hear Lotor’s laughing, as well as Lance’s worried yells of, “Keith! Fuck, stay with me!”

He’s fine– fine, he’s awake and conscious but everything hurts all at once when a shock jolts him back to reality. His body seizes, once again, and numbness runs a course through his body, pins and needles pricking him every which way when the tasing stops. He’s disoriented beyond belief, and has to be dragged back to wherever the fuck Lotor sends him. Keith is hurting, hurting very badly and he feels dizzy and he’s certain one of those guards stepped on his goddamn collarbone _again._

It pulls tears out of his eyes when he least wants it to when Lance is dragged back to the barrel, concern etched on his mouth and his eyes and the way his shoulders tense. He wants to tell Lance, take a breath take a breath they’re going to dunk you and you won’t even know it because you’re looking at me– 

They do. Lotor snaps his fingers and Lance is put under, legs flailing and bubbles rising to the top. A scream rips out of Keith’s throat, shouting “No!” even as he’s tossed around like a sack of potatoes. His shirt is thrown off, and he’s so uncertain of what’s even fucking happening,

_sizzzzle._

Keith whips his head to see Lotor, same fucking smile on his face as he tugs on Keith’s hair as if they’re two little kids in first grade. Keith can’t really say anything, because that yell took the last of his energy out of him, but Lotor speaks. 

“I’m impressed, Keith!” Lotor circles him, again and again, and Keith can hear the clicks of his boots. Clack. Clack. Clack. “You’re a courageous one, I’ll give you that! Very admirable indeed, and you know, we _need_ people like you with us. We believe in strength in numbers, and you’d fit right into our ranks.”

Lance is still thrashing, fingers curling tight into fists behind his back. The bubbles have stopped.

“I’ll never fucking join you,” Keith wheezes, and the sizzling grows louder, and he’s only just registered the dawning, pressurized air of a blowtorch.

“You’re just like us,” Lotor mutters, wrenching his face so he’s forced to look at the Galra. “Just like me. You seem so tough in front of your friends, but you’re so vulnerable. That’s why you keep a distance– you know, I’ve been watching you for months now. Every time I hear about you, you’re off somewhere, far far away from your friends. Now tell me, how does that feel? Feels right, doesn’t it? You like being on your own– admit it. You like to keep a distance so no one knows the real you, hm?”

“Shut up, shut the fuck up, Lotor!” Keith’s voice cracks, and he jostles around for an escape in vain. There is no escaping.

Lance’s legs thump against the barrel. He’s slowing down.

“The reaaal you, Keith! You know something, don’t you? Know something that you keep a deep, dark secret. Don’t want anyone knowing– don’t want your little loverboy knowing. What is it, Keith?”

“Don’t– stop fucking talking! Shut up, just– just stop, fucking, speaking!” Panic is everywhere now, blaring and burning on his skin and he needs to get out. Keith wants to run. Run and never look back.

Lance stops moving.

“Might as well spread it to the world, at this point!” Lotor stands and waltzes back over to Lance, fisting brown locks and pulling him out of the water. Lance wheezes, hard, coughs, and takes a big, gasping gulp before he’s thrust into the water again. 

“Ever wonder what happened to your mother, Keith? You– you think you could hide it forever? How many people have asked you where you came from? Has anyone even realized where you were before that precious family of yours came along? Keith, Keith, you can’t run anymore! I have you right where I want you, so tell me, where are you from? Where the _fuck_ are you from?!” 

Keith screams, begging him to let Lance up. Let him up. Let him up. Let him up. “I’m not like you, I’m not like any of you! You fucking– keep him out of this! Out of all of this– this shit, Lotor, he didn’t ask to be apart of this fucking problem!”

“Neither did you, it seems! Never wanted to be one of us, ever! Did you really think that a fucking _apocalypse_ would stop us from getting what we wanted? It’s you, Keith, you are our protegee! Everyone’s known that from the moment you were born, you would lead the Galra to greater things! Topple the nation, anarchy, but you just had to fucking run! You’ve known who we were this entire time, who were truly were, yet you still–“ Lotor stomps over, brandishing a baton and slams it into Keith’s back, “hide!” slam, “like a _fucking!”_ slam, “coward!” slam.

“You, Keith,” he whispers, shaking, angry and menacing and all of his fears culminate in this one man, who knows. He knows. He knows. He knows he knows he knows he knows he knows

“You are Galra. Your mother was Galra, and when she strayed from the flock to protect you, ruining everything we worked for, Zarkon took the greatest pleasure in shattering her tiny fucking skull to pieces. She ruined us, Keith. So we retaliated.”

Lotor tilts his head, but Keith can’t breathe. Keith can’t think. Lance isn’t moving.

“Who do you think started this mess, hm? It’s been planned from the moment everything fell apart for us. It’s not too difficult to sneak in to some random hospital, and with Haggar at our side, anything was possible. Including– hah! Including _zombies._ Who would’ve thought that we’d get what we want that way? I want to rule it all, Keith. I want everyone under my beck and command, and when there’s already so many I’m leading, everyone will follow. I’ve taken the greatest pleasure in this carnage.

“What do you call it– a conspiracy. The story of the century! A once biker gang turned criminal ring ready to throw the balance of mankind at a moment’s notice triggers the apocalypse, and all because some little boy’s mother can’t keep a fucking secret. That’s your fault, Keith. Everything would’ve been juuuust fine if you hadn’t been born to begin with.”

“I’m not one of you,” Keith whispers, but it holds no merit. He is one of them, he’s had every move tracked by these Galra but he’s never even realized it. “I’ll never be one of you. I’ll– I– I’m not… fucking..one of you.”

“Deny it all you want,” Lotor spits, and Lance is thrown out of the barrel, out cold until water gurgles out of him, and he pukes all over the floor. He’s searching for Keith. “I’ll make you a Galra.”

The searing hot fire of a brand, shaping in a figure he cannot recognize and never wants to know, presses deep in between his shoulder blades. It hurts, it hurts it hurts so fucking bad and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s afraid again, or if everything he worked to protect is coming, crashing down on his very being and his soul. He doesn’t want to be Galra, but he can’t deny it any longer. He is one of them. 

It’s not hard to remember what happened to his real parents. Not the Shiroganes, who took him in after all this fucking mess happened. His real parents, who’d been holed up in a little shack for six years to hide from someone they hadn’t left on good terms with. How his father refused to support the ordeal any longer at the age of three, and one day, left for a walk. Never came back, at least not to Keith's mother. 

His mother was in hiding, he knew that. She was afraid of someone coming after them, and never stayed in the same city too long; but they always came back to that shack. He's certain at this age that the shack was their downfall. If anyone could find that place, they could track every place the pair had gone for the past six years, and it is eventually what leads to the inevitable tragedy. Keith learns soon enough, when he’s five years old, that his mother sabotaged a very scary group of criminals– _Galra._ Burglars, hackers, terrorists, murderers, serial killers, evil of every form all ganged together in a cult that toppled anything he’d ever seen theorized on the internet. They kept their tracks hidden, and no one had been the wiser of the slow unraveling of the core of mankind. Not until his mother had done something about it; but not without repercussions. 

She’d spilled all the Galran secrets in a private interrogation room, arms gripped tight around the baby she’d nurtured from the beginning, and ran. Took a new name, gave Keith his own name, a new last name, and hides for as long as she can. Maybe she doesn't hide hard enough, but she is trying her best, and that's enough for Keith to remember her fondly.

On the eve of his sixth birthday, he walks only one hundred feet from a motel room in Macon, Georgia to buy a bottle of Nesquik chocolate milk and a Gatorade for his mother, with the five dollars he found on the street. He's far enough that he can no longer keep a keen eye on his surroundings, and feels safe in Macon to be able to walk around like this. Not three minutes later, he comes back to the room to see his mother, begging him to turn around and run, as far away as he fucking can and never look back because if he did, she didn’t know what would happen. 

So he does. He runs blocks and blocks with tears running down his face because he is so very scared, so very terrified of the world out there and what would happen to his mother, his poor dear mom who only tried her best for him. He ends up at a police station in the Jones County sheriff’s department, screaming and crying for help because his mom is in danger. 

Two days later, cameras are shoved in the face of a six year old boy whose mother was found beheaded, only after she was beat to death with a club. He is a suspect, if only for a fleeting moment. The real killers are never found, and the media takes pity on the tiny boy in Georgia with no family, just loss. A few weeks later, he is thrown into the foster care system for nearly three years, in and out of homes where he was deemed too problematic, too angry, too hopeless. Keith battles every authoritative figure he sees because for all he knows, everyone is Galra, and everyone is preparing to kill him. The Shiroganes are the first to provide the space he wants– no, _needs._ He meets Shiro, and he blacks out every part of his brain that whispered words of the Galra to him. 

He shows potential at twelve years old, when he pins down Shiro in a play-wrestling match. He has a knack for fighting, among other things; excellent reflexes, heightened senses, lightning-fast speed to where Shiro forces him into his high school's track team- before he dropped out, of course. 

Part of him tells himself that it’s just because of how he was in foster care, but the other half knows the truth. He was bred for this– his family, how his mother taught him to wield a dagger at five, how he’d learned to hide from anyone and anything, he was made to _fight_. He was made to be the very thing that would pull the Galra into victory, and Keith is scared to think what would’ve happened to the world if the Galra were put in charge.

There is a brand on him now, and but Keith feels nothing, except fear. The brand means something deeper than a mark, because it is the beginning of cultivation. Perfectly played chess pieces, and he is just another pawn in the grand scheme of the Galra's plans. He curls into himself when they’re shoved back in the closet, and he’s quaking and crying and whispering that no, no, he is not like them. He will not be one of them, no matter what. He does not want this. Keith does not want this. Keith is not Galra.

He’s not Galra.

“I know you aren’t,” Lance utters, and Keith finally looks up. His brain is in shambles, everything hurts, and Lance’s voice is so strained, so meek, so small. So tired. “You’d think that if you were drowning, you can’t think of anything except survival. Fuck, Keith, I thought about you. I don’t know why, but I could hear everything. You’re not Galra, Keith. No one can tell you otherwise.”

Keith nods, but he doesn’t really register those words, just– Lance. Lance’s soothing tone, Lance’s face, everything and he is reminded of Voltron. Allura’s calm, kind demeanor. Hunk’s undeniable strength, a pillar for everyone. Pidge’s quick wits, how she’s still back at camp, bed ridden, and his heart aches more. Shiro, his fucking brother, who he never thought would be alive in the year that they’d ridden out the apocalypse, who he cares for more than anything and who shows him what true family is. Coran’s advice, wise beyond his years of a man who has seen too much but does what he can to protect everyone else. Jeanine, who’s motherless now but loves Keith because she needs him, and he never wants to leave her alone.

Lance. Lance’s warmth, and his safety, and obnoxious demeanor and how resilient he is, how much he loves and gives for nothing at all in return because he is that person. The Cuban boy who still wishes on stars at night and keeps Keith grounded in a way he never thought he’d experience. Lance’s words finally sit, and settle in him, and the space between his shoulder blades fester and hurt and burn, but he’s stronger than that. So, so much stronger.

“Can I touch you?” Lance asks, soft and gentle, and Keith burrows in his arms.

He is not Galra. He is not Galra.

A guard, in the dead of the night when Keith is kept awake by his horrific thoughts and Lance stays with him til the very end, takes pity. Creaks the door open, and strikes fear deep into Keith’s heart, makes Lance pale and cower, but he is silent. The guard crouches, arms full of strength but never holding a weapon. Just a bottle of water, and a plastic bowl of rice.

Lance looks at is suspiciously, and the guard falters. Then he sturdies again, looks around to see if anyone is watching again, and slowly, slowly leans forward.

He sets the bowl and the water only a foot away from them, then reaching behind his back to procure a roll of cloth and gauze, then backs away. “It’s for you,” he whispers, and his eyes dart nervously again. “Hide the gauze underneath that t-shirt wrap you have on your leg. I’ll bring more water in two days. Put the bottle and plate somewhere the others can’t find it. Can you handle that?”

Keith nods, and the guard hesitates before his departure.

“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

He closes the door, and his voice is filled with a sincerity they’d long since forgotten in the short time they’d been there. Lance launches forward, taking the bowl and the two of them eat together, slowly, to get as full as they can with such little food. It’s split into equal parts, no matter how hard Keith tries to shove more food in Lance. The water is drank with gingerly sips, and hidden away in a dark corner of the closet. Keith’s bandages are changed, and for once, they feel stable.

"This place really is hell, huh?" Keith is cynical beyond all belief, and warm hands splay across his scalp. Lance is warm.

"Yeah," the Cuban bites, breathless and just as nihilistic as the Korean. His lips tilt against his forehead, and brush a kiss on his temple. "We'll make it back, though."

They sleep, once again, and Keith wonders what is to come.  
– 

Life is hard, for the next week.

They’re subjected to various forms of torture. Keith’s thoughts are strung apart on a dissection table for viewing pleasure, his greatest insecurities and fears showcased like a marble statue. His fears of abandonment, the deep-rooted issue between him and the Galra, instinct to protect Lance at all costs, all of it is there for public consumption. Lotor’s manipulation is hardest to deal with, because at the end of the day, physical hurt numbs. It stops. But emotional never does.

Lotor swarms Keith’s head with fears and expectations and throws him under pressure, but can’t ever break through to Lance. The Cuban is a patron of strength, laughing in the face of crushing realizations and seething words of malice. Lotor is not kind to him, angry venom being the only thing coursing through his veins as he desperately tries to tear Lance’s glass castle. Break him. _Break him._

It’s only on the seventh day, a mark of a week of solitude and hills of pain, dead in the night without a soul to see him, that Lance cries. The day itself was difficult; they were strung up with ropes, both of Lance's arms meticulously tied in a thick knot, whereas Keith was tied off by his feet. They're pulled up teetering pillars of wood, ones that look like they once held nooses for criminals in olden days. Instead, the pain is far worse, because it's not instantaneous. They're tossed off the edge with no remorse, and the blood rushes to his head and his ankle twists painfully around itself. Lance, on the other hand, is far worse. Both shoulders dislocated at mismatching angles, pulled too straight and high to be safe, and Lance _screams._ It is not tolerable pain, because Keith is spun around by Galra like a tetherball, blood pounding in his skull. Spots appear, and then the rope is cut, and he lands on his side with a terrible, terrible pain. His arm breaks, of course; it's not exactly easy to fall ten feet above the ground unscathed. Now he's got an entirely non-functioning clavicle and arm, so that's fucking great.

He hears the crying after Lance's shoulders are set with Keith's remaining good arm. It’s muffled, soft and at first Keith can’t hear it because his brain is always too convoluted. But it’s there, it _happens_ and Lance’s voice cracks so heartbreakingly, so sorrowful, so painful, he sobs. Clings to Keith’s shirt like a child and cries for his mother, how he’d burned the bodies of his beloved family because everyone had died that day. Everyone was bit, and yet he survived– the youngest of Lance’s family, who carries the weight of the generations passed.

He’d stared up at the glowing, dulling light of the hanging bulb, pinpricks of warm light dancing in his pupils and tucks his knees close to his chest, rests his head on Keith’s uninjured shoulder.

“I wanna go home,” he whimpers, fistfuls of denim between the spaces of his fingers. “I wish none of this would’ve happened. I wish I’d kept my stupid mouth shut and listened to Allura, and I wish that I never had to put a knife through my mom’s head, and I wish that my brothers were okay, and I wish my sisters were okay, I wish I could smell the bourbon off my dad’s mustache and hug him one last time, I wish– fuck, Keith. I-I just want to be home. I want to be home.”

Keith swallows, harsh, and cradles Lance in his arms. He’s still shaking, eyes blown open and full of the robbed innocence of a child, and Keith wants to put him on a canoe and row away from their problems, and never fight Galra and biters ever again. 

“I wanna go home, too,” Keith mumbles into the brown locks sitting on Lance’s head. They’re thinning out a little bit, but so is his own hair. Stress does that to you. “I miss Shiro. I miss Pidge, Matt, Hunk, Allura, Shay, I-I miss fucking Coran.”

Lance huffs a laugh, but it is empty and desperate, and comes out full of despair and pure, pure need. “I miss Coran too, man,” he mutters, and now they’re both crying. “I miss Coran so fucking much.”

They fall asleep crammed into their closet, heads swirling and hearts tangled like shoelaces and dream of better days with their friends. Keith dreams of glinting white suits and Lance’s beautiful smile, Pidge in a teletubby costume, Hunk stirring a never-ending pot of beans, Shiro and Matt showing off battle scars, Allura and Coran sitting and enjoying cups of year old Lipton tea. He dreams of rings, and flowers, and Lance. Lance, and Lance, and Lance. The mumble of “Keith” that slips past Lance’s lips before Keith drifts away sends his heart into palpitations and assures him they’re closer than they thought. The closet has connected heart and head and body.

In that closet, all words are spilled and poured and received and fixed. He’s at his best, his most stable in that closet no matter how much he dreads another night in the cramped space. He can say what he wants, when he wants it; can cuss out Lotor and call him a whining, cowardly dickhead for not facing him like a real fighter. He can tell Lance to love him to the ends of the earth and back, cherish his words that clip out every passing day. It gets harder to talk, but they do. Talking is what keeps them thriving, keeps them alive.

While the emotional trauma is set in stone, ingrained in their brains for all eternity, the physical is not. Keith cannot remember the last time he saw his skin, tanned from the sun and void of mottled blues and reds and yellows and purples. Keith has not seen the sun in ages, but he starts to think he’s got enough colors on his body to make a sunset. It’s not something he should praise, or accept, but it is better than thinking he’s scarred for life. 

The physical torture hurts in the present. Keith’s bones have pop-lock-bent in every which way that he’s not too sure is correct anymore, and the brand on between the sharp angles of his shoulder blades starts to scab over. Lance doesn’t say it, but neither of them know how to deal with the new insignia. The screaming fact, that yes, Keith was once technically Galra. Not anymore. Not ever.

The physical takes a toll on Lance the most; It seems that the Galra have been playing a game of Lance’s resilience, see how much he can be subjected to before he collapses of exhaustion, stress, or something. He’s been beaten, cut, drowned, burned, but he pulls through because if he does, that means they can go back to the closet. Go back to safety.

Keith had a seizure, once.

They were sitting in chairs facing one another, guards standing behind them with pistols on either side of their ear. The objective of their “game” was to see how many bullets they could fire before it hits someone. Keith’s hearing hasn’t been the same since, because a total of twenty-eight bullets were fired right next to their ear drums. That constant ringing and pain in an otherwise empty room affected them more so than normal, and he still has troubles in his left ear even days later. The seizure comes when a bullet grazes far, far, far too close to his skull and cuts along his right cheek. Breath hitches in his throat fast, and then it’s like a broken dam. Breaths coming too fast, until he’s hyperventilating, but at that point there’s nothing he can do.

Lance informs him of what he saw. It’s like he’d left his body, staring out into nothing and stopping with his mouth agape, then his hands twitch abnormally, and he slumps forward, forward. He’s still, for a shocking twenty seconds even when guns point at his head and threaten to take his life. Keith comes too, blinking slow and mouth full of cotton and they are taken back into the closet. Lance deduces he had an absence seizure, but Keith is too tired to properly care.

The ninth day is when things begin to change. They’re pulled out of the closet, but no form of real, daunting physical pain happens. Keith waits, waits for the worst to come and have their brains turned to slush when Lotor strolls in beside an old, old woman. She looks evil, angry, and Keith has the faintest of ideas of who this is. It sits heavy on his tongue, and he darts away his eyes before she speaks.

“This is Haggar,” Lotor says simply, and the day begins.

They’re instructed to do strange things. At first, she tells them to do physical work. How athletic are they? Can they run after being so badly wounded? Can they perform any acts of violence in this state? It’s hard to test, because they both feel like shit, but at the hopes of returning to the closet, they do. Keith does single-handed push ups on the safer side of his body side until he can’t feel his arm, fights a Galra soldier with as much vigor and anger as he can muster, runs laps around the warehouse. He feels less cooped up, but Lance is not a fan of this.

He’s got that look in his eyes that tells Keith he’s going to collapse if they keep it up. Lance has fucking broken ribs, and with every exercise he’s forced into doing, his arms pop in and out of place. It’s horrific, watching him nearly break his body because he, too, wants to go back to the closet. Lance runs until he’s coughing and his ribs are digging hard, hurtful, and bad. He lives with that constant pain, and even when he tries his best, it is not enough. Keith is deemed more “physically capable”, but he does not like that, nor accept it.

It is a weird situation.

Keith loses– or whatever the fuck they’re doing– when Haggar starts an interrogation session. Using all the ways the Galra have figured out to pick his brain apart, wicked smile on her face as she pushes all his buttons and talks about his mother because she knew her. Haggar knew his mom, and she intends to use that in the worst way possible.

It works. Keith starts thrashing in his chair and screaming and begging for her to stop fucking talking, and it’s another mental break for him. He’s had many of these, but not this bad. Not since Lotor uncovered his secret. Lance does much better; he’s a stone wall of emotion, having already heard things they tell him so many times before that it no longer hurts. It tugs Keith’s heart painfully, but he acknowledges the intelligence, the finesse that goes into the way he handles interrogation. Calls Keith pretty instead of answering question. Talks about his perfect teeth when prompted about his family. Flat out spits in Haggar’s face that his mother has been dead for a year and he had to kill her, and that’s when she ends his session. 

Keith does not enjoy the following days because they entail the same. Only around the twelfth day does Haggar switch it up and include physical torture into their interrogation, but otherwise, it is a resting period. They are not being hurt. They are simply existing, now, but it is still a painful existence.

“I don’t like this,” Lance mutters one night, sipping on a newly refilled bottle of water. The Galra who’d been helping them, whose name he’s learned is Tim and was coerced into the Galra, only to realize their message and what they do, and decides to break out one way or another. He reminds him of a gentler, more curly-bearded Thace, and Keith likes his company. Lance offers a spot among the Voltron camps, and Tim tells them he’ll think about it, and hands them their dinner for the next two days.

“Like what?” Keith asks, nibbling on a grain of rice stuck on his thumb. They’re lying on the ground again, feet propped up on the wall and letting themselves breathe easy. Haggar liked to use daggers, which prompts the joke “Haggar with a dagger,” but also causes twice as many painful slashes on what little skin they have left untouched.

“This whole thing.” Lance tucks his head further into the crook of Keith’s unbroken collarbone. “Don’t you think it’s weird that they just..stopped hurting us? I feel like they’re planning something really bad, Keith.”

“I agree with you,” Keith nods, solemn, and gazes at their interlocked hands. “Let’s just rest for a while. We can figure out their nefarious plans when we get a better read on the situation. We both need to relax, for now. Hold out as long as we can.”

They drift back to sleep, and the cycle breaks on the thirteenth day.

They’re dragged out of the warehouse, farther away from where they’ve been using the restroom and deeper into the city. The sun shines brightly in Keith’s eyes, to the point where it’s almost painful. He’s not sweating, even with the heat beating down on his neck because he’d become used to the humidity of the closet. It feels weird, walking further than twenty steps and his thigh already strains; they’re lucky that they have Tim. A few quick, fumbled stitches finally helped the stab wound begin its healing process. However, it doesn't mean the pain is gone, because his leg still feels like it was run over by a firetruck.

The two of them are brought into a sterile building, white stark walls burning into his skin. He looks sickly in this light, arms yellowed in a way that looks like a severe case of jaundice, but he knows is bruises. It’s a little gross, sure, but he doesn’t get to think about it because his mind is buzzing over a new environment. Obviously medical, which blares alarms in the pit of his stomach. Haggar started this whole mess herself, and god knows what the Galra liked to experiment; no good would come out of here.

When they’re settled into a blank room with two brown, wooden chairs sitting in the middle, Keith starts to question things. It’s too clean, and the various needles and syringes and bottles of pills does nothing to ease his nerves. It gets worse when IV bags and bio-hazard tanks get wheeled in, and they’re strapped down to their chairs with a gun to the back of the head. Keith subconsciously pleads that they’re just gonna be infected with the flu, or something, but he knows better.

“The fuck is going on?” Lance spits, and Keith turns his eyes to his boyfriend. A cotton swab of rubbing alcohol brushes over the unmarked spaces on his inner forearm, and Keith gets the same treatment. “You gonna pump us full of drugs and have your sick game that way, Lotor?”

“Oh, no, of course not. I like my victims conscious,” the Galra chuckles, and kneels in front of them. "You see, you've been living a very safe way, believe it or not. Getting hung upside down, stabbing you, getting burned, is honestly completely tolerable in comparison of what we have in mind for you."

Keith grunts, weakly, and pulls at the seat arm attempting to wrestle out his wrist from the cuffs. It's a disheartening attempt, but so is everything else at that point. He's not sure if they'll ever be found, alive _or_ dead. Lotor raises a brow at his attempt, and laughs again, one fit to match a diabolical villain of his caliber. In other words, he laughs like Skeletor and that is a sad, sad comparison Keith hopes he never makes again.

"No point in trying anymore. We're keeping a very close eye on you, from now on. Phase 3 is in motion, boys!"

"Phase 3?" Keith questions, and pulls again at the cuff. Lance is close enough that their fingers brush together, fleeting, and he stops struggling; listens, instead,

"Of course, this is the most important and final stage of my little game. You've got a week left before I either use your talents for better use, or you're dead. See, Phase 1 is just settling you in and preparing you for your time here! That little prisoner stunt we pulled was truly magnificent, wasn't it? Now, Phase 2 is a test of your resilience; both of you passed with flying colors! I've never seen someone take so many different hits, emotionally and physically, and _survive!"_

A needle jabs into his forearm, and he watches blood pool into the syringe. Great, now they're planning on cloning him or some shit. Keith feels a little woozy though, 'cause Haggar just keeps taking his blood.

"Wh-What's Phase 3?" Lance swallows and his jaw clenches terribly. His knuckles are so white, gripped against the arms of the chair and Keith turns his gaze back to Lotor. The man is humming again, and his smile is anything but pleasant.

"Phase 3 is not just a test of your vitals, but the very culmination of what we've studied about you this past week. All of your insecurities, your fears, your strengths; all will come into play, and you will breed a new form of monster. If it works, of course...and if it doesn't, I'll send Allura your body bags neatly chopped up in gift bags and everything." Lotor pauses, a sick grin on his face. "That is, if she isn't already dead."

"I dare you to f-fuckin' try and poison me or some shit. I fucking dare you," Lance growls, and the pads of his finger press against Keith's.

"What'll happen to us?" Keith whispers, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Lotor's eyes crinkle.

"The two of you will be my martyrs. My patrons, my chosen," Lotor's head tilts back, and a dark feeling blankets the room, cold and biting. "You, my friends, will become the greatest threat Voltron has ever known."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls dont hurt me. and feel free to ask me to elaborate on things included in this chap bc i feel like it gets a bit jumbled
> 
> and just bc i like to keep you on your toes, pov change next chap. sorry it took me a bit to get this out.
> 
> ps. just because i want to share it with you...  
> "Keith cannot remember the last time he saw his skin, tanned from the sun and void of mottled blues and reds and yellows and purples. Keith has not seen the sun in ages, but he starts to think he’s got enough colors on his body to make a sunset."  
> this is my favorite line of this chapter, hands down :')


	13. find my friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pov change! 
> 
> also, i totally forgot to mention this last chapter, but my good pal [swablurb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/swablurb/pseuds/swablurb) did a little fic trade with me!! she actually wrote a little thing for thab about lance's birthday, and i highly highly recommend checking it out!!! its super cute and i love it. [here's the link!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11659272)

Hunk is a sensible man.

He likes sensible things. The color yellow, his girlfriend, cooking meat when it’s available, his best friends, naps, so on. And while he isn’t off kicking Galra butt 24/7 like his friends, he’s still very adamant on making _sure_ the Galra don’t get away with what they do to prisoners and people simply trying to survive.

Hunk is a loveable guy. Hunk loves his friends, just about everyone, so much so that he’s become the “older brother” of the camp. Shay’s team is often called Soft Serve– soft at heart, willing to serve justice. See, the thing is, Hunk is both of those things. He loves his friends to death, meaning, he will do _anything_ to get them back.

Which is why he was the one who took the reigns of Lance and Keith’s rescue mission. 

Hunk sits in Pidge’s room beside Shay, able to eat breakfast with the two girls once he was relieved from cooking duty. It’s been an unsettling amount of time since Lance and Keith have been gone, and no word of a solid plan had rose from Shiro or Allura. He hadn’t even gotten word on what they found at Brigham– obviously not his friends. Now he’s forced to stand by until they figure out something, but that leaves an unsettling pit in Hunk’s stomach. He should be doing _something,_ but here he was— sitting.

“Are you okay?” Shay murmurs to him, gentle hand pressed into his shoulder. The man shrugs, looking up from the view of his lap to the other two.

“This doesn’t feel right, guys,” he breathes, setting aside the empty bowl. “We shouldn’t just sit around and wait for the others to make a plan. We gotta do something– Allura won’t even let me ask to lead the mission. I get that they’re probably more well-equipped to handle this but…”

“Keith’s my best friend,” Pidge trails after him, wringing her hands together and letting the back of her head meet the headboard. “I get where you’re coming from, dude. I honestly think we should confront them about this whole– whole mess, man. We can’t just sit back like this any longer.”

Hunk half expects Shay to bring up a valid argument. She’s the level-headed one of their team, because even Hunk could act on impulse if it meant keeping people safe. There was a reason why his girlfriend was the team leader; she was smart, compassionate, and knew a thing or two about leading well.

Which is why her reply is far from normal, considering his predisposed thoughts of her.

“I say we start forming something ourselves,” Shay says, crossing her legs and tapping her chin thoughtfully. “If I could get you whatever they found in Brigham, do you think you could work off of that? I’m sure whatever Lotor left has clues that your big brains can figure out.”

“...Huh?” Hunk fumbles, completely dumbfounded. Not only was she suggesting they go behind the camp leader’s backs and form a plan to present, but also steal information from right underneath them. It was all too surreal, but for some reason Hunk finds he likes the idea. Shay was not only badass, but also willing to go to any lengths to save his friends. God, no wonder he was dating her!

“That’s...not a bad plan,” Pidge remarks, eyebrows furrowed together. “So long as we don’t act on it, I say we give it a shot.”

“How do you plan on getting that information from those two? They’re always cooped up in that tent arguing over what to do about this. I doubt anything could pull them away from it.” Hunk takes a tentative glance out Pidge’s window, where the impromptu meeting tent was set up beside the dining tables.

“It’s simple,” Shay says, and joins him as they view out the window. “I could do it right now, if you do exactly what I say.”

“Lay it on me,” Pidge chirps, and Shay grins. She starts relaying her plan, which is somehow more impressive (and shorter) than the Great Zombie Chase of August 21st. So many pots and pans, so many campers, so much running, so many molotovs. Rounding up the infected isn’t as easy as people made it seem in the movies.

Shay’s plan is very, very simple, to the point where he’s not convinced it’ll work. But Shay is a master of plans and can play a role eerily well, so he’s not too worried. The plan goes as follows: Pidge is to start up a ruckus in her room, prompting Shay to flag down Shiro to calm her down. Hunk is supposed to hunt down Allura and distract her, while they recruit Matt to sneak in and log as much information as he can before he’s caught. The only reason Matt is apart of this plan is because he walks in just as they’re shouting “Go team!” and demands to be let in on the tomfoolery of the camp.

“I’m fast, dude. Like, I write fast,” he reiterates, which convinces Hunk to let him join their endeavours.

They set their plan into action immediately. Matt starts hyping his sister up immediately, reminding her of how many times she lost chess matches against him, how she’s still not allowed to walk around and do normal people things, how she fell in the bathtub when she was three and had to get Matt to help her out because she was too short to get over the edge, and how she’s still barely 5’2 and probably won’t grow anymore. Little things like that get her _fired up,_ and soon she’s crying out of frustration (half of which is acting, leaving Hunk very impressed). Shay starts working up a panic too, and Matt and him sneak into Hunk’s room to await Shiro’s arrival.

Shay runs down the hall, and soon is followed by Shiro, who’s got a look of pure concern and worry etched across his face. Matt stifles his laugh, and exits the house first to avoid suspicions. Hunk listens to the conversation next door, and he too, has to stop the laughs bubbling out his throat.

“I-I told her it was okay for her to start walking around again, and sh-she just started crying! Nothing I say calms her down,” Shay sputters, fake panic laced in her words. He can practically feel Shiro’s dad nod, and the comforting hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, I can handle it,” he says, and footsteps are heard closer to Pidge’s bed. The girl starts sobbing, _loud,_ and Hunk can hear her thrashing her legs like a eight year old in a tantrum. Really, the only reason her real, occasional tantrums are tolerated is because Shiro has a very soft spot for the girl and pities her like his own sister. “Pidge, what’s wrong? You can talk to m–”

“I’m mad at you!” she screeches, and more crying starts again. Maybe she’s milking it, but it’ll do. Hunk decides to leave then, and he vaguely catches Shiro’s panicked fumbles of “huh, wait, what, why?” and leaves with chuckles in his throat. 

The Samoan spots Allura not too far from the tent, and also sees Matt crouched underneath a dining table like a scary goblin. The table he’s hiding under is seated by two teenage girls Hunk remembers as Mindy and Chloe, who are trying their best ignore Matt and not start laughing. Goblin man aside, Hunk heads straight to Allura. A gentle tap on her shoulder catches her attention, and Hunk’s mind blanks.

Right. Talking.

Goblin moves fast into the tent, silent as can be and Hunk starts fumbling out whatever comes to mind. A quick look around the area shows the warm breeze, hustle and bustle of camp, and worry etched deep into Allura’s brow. She looks a little tired, and he feels bad if not for a fleeting moment. They have a task at hand. “So, uh, Allura! Howsit goin’? You feeling okay, you eat breakfast yet? Wonderful weather we’re having, I’m enjoying it a lot. Yeah, uh, anyways, what’s up!”

Allura raises a delicate brow, folding her hands together and offering a quizzical expression. Hunk cringes internally, hoping she’ll sail right past his empty babbling. “Oh, I’m alright. A little tired, is all– I haven’t had the chance to eat yet. What about you?”

“Oh, yeah, I ate breakfast. It was good, got to eat with Shay and everything.” A wash of relief floods him, and he takes a quick glance to see if Matt is still in the tent. Nope, Goblin isn’t anywhere in sight. Gotta stall for longer. “You should eat soon, we’ve got a lot of fruit that we need to get through. It’s pretty good, go for the peaches if you can.”

She giggles, light and airy and nods enthusiastically. “I’ll be sure to do that! Where is Shay, though? I’m surprised she isn’t with you anymore, weren’t you just having breakfast?”

Hunk fumbles a bit, twiddling his thumbs and trying to come up with an excuse. “Oh, uh, she’s off doin’ her own thing! I think she was gonna meet with the rest of the team or whatever. I-I already got debriefed, so we’re good! Enough about me, uh, how’s the whole rescue thing going?”

“Not good.” Allura grimaces, gaze dropping to her feet and Hunk’s mouth turns sour. Crap, now she was probably feeling bad about something and that made _him_ feel bad. “We’ve been trying to find any connections we can on their whereabouts, but no one’s seen them. No one’s heard about Lotor for the past week, either, and Calvin isn’t a lick of help. I’m beginning to think he’s just toying with us, and the two of them are just de–”

She stops herself, eyes blown open in shock and Hunk bites his cheek. The “d” word had become a bit of a swear on the topic of Lance and Keith, which he refused to believe the two of them were. Lotor was too cunning, too wary of repercussions if the two of them ended up in body bags. No, he was definitely planning something more– killing them would just prove fruitless in the fight against Voltron. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, soft and rubs her neck nervously. “I didn’t mean to say that, it’s just...difficult. I wish I could do more, and the Blade are trying their best to assist our search efforts. They like Keith a lot, so we’ve got that as an advantage.” She huffs a laugh, and Matt finally leaves the tent with a waggle of his fingers and Hunk nods curtly. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and places a hand on her shoulder. Allura relaxes instantly, and a smile curls on her lips. “You guys are trying your best. We can only hope for the best, for now. In the meantime, try to get some sleep, okay? Rest and all that junk. You deserve it.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple to leave a camp to run by itself,” she chuckles, and Hunk waves it off.”

“Eh, whatever. Let Coran take the ropes for the day, he can handle it.” The statement draws a nod from her, and he makes his way back to the house as nonchalantly as he can. Sure, he feels bad for indirectly lying to her to help his friends, but they were obviously going nowhere at this point. Besides, something told him whatever was left behind in Brigham wasn’t meant for just anybody.

He makes it back into the house smoothly, Matt joining him and walking to Pidge’s bedside. He chases off Shiro, citing that he’s making her stress worse because he’s so doting, and instead orders he eats breakfast and take a nap or two. Shiro obliges, pressing a kiss to Matt’s temple and somehow missing the fake gag Pidge produces. They wait a few moments, and once they’re assured that Shiro would not be coming back, and Matt places the tiny notepad of information on Hunk’s lap. There’s a lot of scrabbled notes and tiny words in the margins, but what draws Hunk’s attention the most is the coded message, circled in red pen.

“Oh,” Matt says, when he notices Hunk has been eyeballing it for a minute. “That’s all I got from whatever Lotor left in Brigham. There was shit like the area and how it looked, but one of those two said this was written and left as a message. They found it in the ground next to Keith’s knife.”

God, something about the way it was written was so familiar. It was an itch begging to be scratched, and he pulls himself into Pidge’s messy desk and writes out the message with clean, neat letters.

“26 32 16 4 30 *** ** rihanna water retail homes use ;; well 0071 S Z-- KP BCPK.” That’s exactly what it reads, and things start to click together in his head when he rereads it. The last letters he doesn’t understand, but everything from that 26 to the S— it makes sense, because it’s Lance. Lance wrote this specifically for him to figure out.

“Hooooly shit,” he mutters, earning inquisitive ‘what’s from his companions. Hunk doesn’t reply just yet, but simply sets to work on decoding the message.

Ever since Lance’s Galra scuffle, from way before they’d rejoined Pidge and even considered Voltron a possibility, the two of them had made a secret language, of sorts. It was mostly in order for them to communicate in the most simplistic, but equally challenging way possible. It was designed specifically so that in order to read it, you had to know Lance; and boy oh boy, does he know Lance.

It doesn't take him too long to decode it, and he’s panicked with the new flood of information. Hunk brings the paper over to the others, who all are looking at the paper like it’s keeping the mysteries of the world, and he explains it.

“So, uh, me and Lance have a coding we use whenever we can’t talk about something. Usually, we’re able to sneak it out without anyone asking what it means, ‘cause it’s just a bunch of mumbo jumbo— unless you know what it reads. It’s no wonder Shiro or Allura couldn’t figure it out! I’m the only who can read it. For now, at least.

“So let me start with those numbers. We use that whole numbers-letters equivalent system, but when we write it out, we move every letter down one number. So A would be two, B would be three, Z would be one. Once we do that, we multiply it by two ‘cause it’s fast math,” he sees Pidge nod excitedly, and her eyes skim the paper fast, then widen significantly.

“Logan! Like, the city up in Utah?”

“Yup,” he taps the asterisks next, grin growing wider. “Now these are a little weirder. We have an alert system, which tells the other how bad or good a situation is, on a scale of one to three. One means you can get out of it on your own, two is you need a distraction, three is a full blown rescue mission. The two asterisks that follow, I’m not actually too sure.”

“Keith and I use something like that, only when it’s absolutely necessary,” she says, and waggles two of her fingers. “That means they’re both okay, and alive.”

Hunk nods, wash of relief flooding him. His eyes meet the others, and he continues. “The next part is sort of like the whole NATO phonetic alphabet, but we both figured that it’d be too easy to figure out that way. So Lance did his little pop culture thing to indicate what’s up— “Rihanna” is two reasons, that he’s in some deep shit and there’s no way he can get out. He did it because of her song ‘SOS’, dude. He’s a _legend._ Anyways, the next part is a little simpler. We take the first two letters of words to spell out a word– a.k.a., ‘Warehouse’ here. I can’t read this last part, though— I’m almost certain it’s from Keith.”

Pidge and Matt peer at the paper, brows furrowed as he shares a glance with Shay. A quick mouth of “you okay?” does the job for her, and she nods pleasantly. Hunk smiles.

“Got it!” Matt explains, and flicks Pidge’s forehead when she lets out an exasperated groan. “Shiro uses the same direction system. “Well” is west, and they’re on 1700 Street. Not sure what the Z is.”

“I was going to say, that’s the first letter of the building name, dipshit,” Pidge grumbles, and points a finger at the final portion. “This is for me, though. KP is literally just Keith and Pidge...the rest of it reads “backpack,” so I guess he left his back home...I’ll have to check it.”

“Why ‘Z’ though? I can’t think of any warehouses around that area ‘cause I’ve never been there. I doubt it’s on a map.”

“Zollinger!” Shay exclaims, a chirp of excitement. “That’s the warehouse name, it’s very spacious and I’ve seen many of the Galra holed up in those warehouses! Z for Zarkon, I guess. We have logs of all of our missions in one of Slav’s rooms. I’m sure we can find information to confirm what I’m thinking!”

A sheepish smile curls over her lips and Hunk presses a soft kiss to her temple, and Pidge gags again. Hunk returns his attention to the paper, and a sigh escapes him. Lance must’ve been able to convince a guard to leave this in Brigham, or simply snuck it in with whatever else they’d found. Matt had noted that what Lotor left them didn’t pertain much to Lance and Keith, but instead demands for information. Sort of like holding them ransom. His heart aches for his friends, and the unspoken words of panic in the message, and a surge of protection blossoms from his chest. He’d find them, no matter what it takes.

“Well,” Hunk says, cracking his knuckles and circling the group together, “let’s get to planning.”

– 

It takes roughly six hours to figure out what they want to try. Obviously, the Galra location will be infested with guards to keep the two under strict lock-down. It’d be hundreds of times harder to sneak in than to simply walk through the front door, but for that to work, they’d need a multitude of ideas.

“I don’t want to just leave the job half-assed and have all those Galra still around,” Matt comments, when Pidge suggests they just get their friends out as fast as possible. “They’ll just come after us. I want to make sure that Lotor can’t follow us back, dead or alive. I wouldn’t be opposed to capturing him, either– we could dismantle the Galra from the inside out if we have Lotor.”

The thought sends a slight chill up Hunk’s spine, knowing how easy it is for them to kill people, but he cannot dwell on it– not anymore. Not after what the Galra have done to all of them.

Instead, they consider their allies. The most prominent, and strongest of their allies would be the Blade of Marmora. They’re fast, stealthy, and each of their members overwhelms the Galra through their sheer strength. They’re not to be meddled with, and if the plan they’re forming goes over well, the Blade is an integral part of their plans. Besides, those guys love Keith’s fancy footwork and Lance’s uplifting spirits in an apocalypse; anyone would take the chance to take out Lotor, too.

The only difficult part to think of would be getting into the base. They’d more or less decided on a hands-on approach, infiltrate from the front and go in guns blazing. The problem arose from the sheer amount of guards in the camp, posted every which way as far as they could tell. There was no time to go scout out the area. Every day that passed only proved worse for his friends in the camp, and the sooner they got them out, the better. Which is why they were stuck on entering in from front, despite every other aspect of the plan proving decently acceptable.

“They’ll shoot us the moment we get past the walls,” Matt states, drawing out a pseudo-map of a basic camp. “We’ll be dead before we even make it in, because there’s no cover in a warehouse. If it’s anything like the other Galra camps, we could be dealing with a massive influx of soldiers from behind the walls, too. Not to mention the fact that they could be hiding in a building, too– we’d have to have somebody on the inside help us find Lance and Keith.”

“I know, I just– there’s literally no other route, dude. We can’t sneak in people, ‘cause they’re definitely on high alert and we can’t lose more people to the Galra. We gotta figure out some way to get in without getting killed first.”

“How about a car?” Pidge quips, tapping her fingers against the drawn out wall. “You said it’s normally just fencing that keeps biters at bay, right? If you have a car, with enough speed, you could literally just plow through.”

“Yeah, but we’ll still get hit through the glass. I doubt any of us have access to an armored car or whatever to get in.”

“Oh, but I do. You can use it, but you’re going to need more than one to get this plan to work.”

“Oh, thanks, Thace–- ooooooh my god, hey, whoa, Thace! We’re just– uh, oh god,” Hunk sputters, hands splayed over the paper in an attempt to hide it from Thace. How the hell he got in here without any of them knowing, Hunk has no idea, but he isn’t really in the mood to start asking suspicious questions. “H-How you doin’?”

Nervous smiles are offered around to Thace, who’s got a stiff expression but an inquisitive brow. He gestures to the map, obviously seeing through their very horribly played move and points to the wall. “We have access to many military vehicles in the Blade. I don’t think knocking down their fences will be enough to scramble the Galra; you’ll need a distraction. We can move in after you’ve knocked down the front wall, but you need to get as many Galra in one spot as you can so we can drop in safely.”

Shay lets out a sigh, shooing Hunk’s hands away from the map and indicating the wall. “If we can get enough people there, you’ll be able to get enough Blade in fast to start trying to locate Lance and Keith, and all the other prisoners that must be in that camp, right? We just need a big enough distraction to get them all near the front wall.”

“Precisely. What exactly would draw the Galra’s attention, though? It’s not like you can lean out the window and bang pots and pans. They’ll shoot you on sight.” Thace places a thoughtful hand on his chin, seating himself in the spot between Shay and Matt on the floor. 

Hunk thinks, very very hard. They need something loud enough, something that’ll keep them at a safe distance from the Galra and out of harm’s way. Something like…

“Oh my god,” Hunk huffs, an exasperated smile curling on his lips. “Oh my god, that’s fucking perfect!”

“What is?” Shay asks, looking at him with a bewildered expression. She’s obviously confused, but Hunk knows exactly what’ll get the Galra right where they want them. He’s gonna need a few things, and the Holt siblings help, but they could do it. It was _perfect._

“Lance’s sweet summer tracks of 2016. That’s what’s gonna get them out!” Hunk springs up and scrambles into his friend’s rooms, grabbing both Keith’s and Lance’s backpacks so they can sift through the contents of the bags. There it is, the CD in all it’s glory with sloppy chicken scratch and a big smiley face on the gray cover. He checks the tracklist, and it’s the best thing he’s laid his eyes on. Loud music, loud and distracting and enough that it can get the Galra crowded in one spot. Pidge snatches the CD, skimming through the tracklist and pulling a confused face.

“How is Beyonce gonna help our friends get out of the camp, dude?”

“We’re gonna need really, really big speakers.”

– 

It doesn’t take to long to secure what they need. A few quick calls via walkie through Thace, and somehow the Blade have already secured what they’d asked for. Pidge had stumbled upon the miracle of Keith’s backpack, which contained a very, very detailed blueprint of basic bomb charges to set once they get inside the camp. Collapse the infrastructure, and take out a few Galra while they’re at it. Hunk made it a point to say not to shoot any Galra who were surrendering, or simply not shooting– no need for innocent casualties, no matter how much he hated Galra. 

The speakers were mounted onto the truck through Matt’s careful instruction over the walkie, and both the Holt siblings took to work on forming the bombs per Keith’s instruction in Slav’s building. The two of their big brains managed to figure it out in record time, even modifying it so that it’d perform a cleaner, more focused explosion– no point in killing yourself in the process of saving your friends.

In the meantime, Shay became the ambassador alongside Thace to propose their idea whether the other two liked it or not. It was already in motion, they simply needed the others to be on board with the idea. Shiro was much more adamant on the unnecessary dangers, while Allura worried over the use of resources this plan would take. But after Shay mentioned Lotor’s capture, as well as the rescue of inevitably more prisoners and potential location of other camps, the two of them caved. The only thing left now was recruiting camp members to help move this into action– they’d need more than a handful of members to take care of this camp. That was left up to Hunk.

They’d called for a camp meeting, and now he stood at the front of the meeting tent, facing the fifty or more so faces he’d seen around the Salt Lake City camp. Many of them looked weary, some looked concerned, others full of vigor. Hunk clears his throat, thinking other his words and finally, he knows what to say.

“Okay, guys, listen,” he sighs, and scratches his neck. “We need a lot of people to help out with the mission we’re gonna do. I’m sure most of you have heard about it, but if you haven’t, we’re going after Lance and Keith. We’re not forcing any of you to help us, but think about it. We’d save so many other people stuck in Lotor’s camps if we were able to capture him and weasel any info out of that guy. He’s no friend of ours, and if we can get him, we can get the rest of them. We could _end_ this. Focus on finding a cure, saving more people, maybe even get some of those Galra who don’t like where they are to join Voltron. This is going to be dangerous, and hard, but the reward is unimaginable. God, though, think about it– being one of the people who helped kickstart the biggest revolution the Galra will ever see. We could save so many lives, and for once, finally feel like we’ve won. I’m not forcing any of you to help us– but if you want to, if you really, really want to, then this is where you can help. Help us fight the Galra– help us save those prisoners.”

Hunk ends it at that, turning away gently and lets a smile curl over his lips when cheers and hollers resonate from the crowd. Allura calls those who are helping over for a debriefing and a quick one-on-one session to make sure most, if not all those who want to help are ready. It’s amazing, seeing so many people come together to save his friends and warms his heart in more ways than he thought it could. Things are coming together, and he feels like there’s victory on the tip of his tongue. Hunk can do this– Voltron can do this. All it takes is a little bit of hope.

– 

The morning after, everything is set into place. The plan is as follows: distraction, plowing through the front fence when they hear the signal (two whistles) and helping the Blade up and over the fences. Lance’s CD sits in the radio player of Hunk’s truck, and boy, it is a _beauty._

Whatever the Galra did, they did it well, because the car is a gem. There’s two speakers mounted in the back, secured and perfect fitting in the back of it. The speakers themselves are perfect for what they need, and he isn’t too worried about getting shot; the truck would be playing music the entire way down to the camp, and he’d have enough time to duck down before the true cavalry came barrelling down the street, knocking out the walls. A few of the Blade had passed the area to see the walls, and there’s less people than they thought on watch duty. That didn’t mean it would be any easier to get in. 

The armored cars are secured and ready for action, and Hunk is certain everything is falling into place correctly. The cars are all ready, the Blade is prepared for action, bomb charges tucked into a car and only able to be detonated when they set the fuse. The sheer amount of alcoholic beverages in one of the trucks is honestly impressive, and he's hoping that the molotovs won't cause further panic in the camp. Everyone is accounted for, except someone a little bit important. He didn’t really consider that Pidge would want to tag along; so when she comes stumbling out of her room and taps Matt’s sleeve, he’s not prepared for the immediate quarrel.

“Come to say goodbye to your big brother, Katie?” Matt singsongs, ruffling her hair and earning a skeptical brow. 

“No, I’m coming with you.”

“Haha, very funny,” Matt chirps, and Hunk pales instantly. Oh, no. “...You’re serious? Katie, you’re not coming with us–”

“The hell I’m not. I want to help just as much as you do, they’re my friends! I don’t want to just lay around waiting for you guys to show up and make sure Keith and Lance are okay. Matt, seriously, I haven’t done jack shit for the camp, and I need this. I need to help.”

“Yeah, fucking right– you got _shot._ In the gut! I had to watch them scoop out all your intestines and try to save your life, and you just want to throw yourself back into action? I don’t think so!”

“I can take care of myself! I can walk again, I can handle a gun, I’m basically fine! You can’t just keep me cooped up in that fucking room for the rest of my life, Matt,” she shoots back, fists curled at her sides. Hunk already sees the frustration pearling at her eyes, and he grimaces. They need to settle this now, or else they won’t get anywhere.

“Katie, no, and that’s it. I’m not letting you kill yourself out there!”

“And I’m not gonna stay behind like a baby and hope for the best!”

“Jesus, fucking listen to me, you’ll get yourself killed! I don’t want that, I couldn’t handle that–“

He’s oddly reminiscent of Lance’s anger back when they were saving Matt, and Hunk starts to pick up on the parallels. He’s already advancing forward to break them up, and Shiro is nearing the pair too, because they’re in a full-on screaming match. Matt’s eyes water.

“I won’t let myself die, I won’t even fucking be front and center if you want me to! I need to go out there, Matt, please–”

Matt yells out in frustration, and points a shaking finger in her direction. “No, and that’s it! I’m not losing my fucking baby sister, not anymore! Not again! I can’t– I won’t– you all I have fucking left, why can’t you just listen to me? Why won’t you let me protect you, I don’t–” he’s crying now, and swoops her into a tight, tight hug. Hunk freezes.

“I’m not losing you again, Katie. Not again– not ever. I couldn’t handle it, not at all, and I-I just...please. Please. You’re growing up too fast for me to catch up, and– I don’t want you to just slip through my fingers. Never again.”

They’re silent, and Shiro is only feet away from the pair. Pidge curls tight into Matt, fingers clasped in his shirt as Matt tries to calm himself down. He speaks, soft. “I get that you want to be out here, and I just...I’m scared that you’ll end up dead like the rest of us. You don’t deserve that, jesus, you’re only sixteen. I’m being selfish, but for once, I want you to hear me out. _Please.”_

Pidge draws away from him, steady hand on his face and sighs. She’s tired, they’re both tired, but Matt seems to know what she wants. She wants to help. 

“Matt,” she murmurs, and pats his shoulder. “I’ll be okay, I swear. I’ll stick behind with Kolivan in the trucks, I just– I need this. I need to help.”

They sit there, quiet, until Matt huffs and scrubs at his eyes. Shiro joins them shortly, and Hunk places a comforting hand on Pidge. “I wish you weren’t so stubborn, kid,” Matt mutters, a chuckle escaping him as he peers at her again. “You got that from Dad, though. We both did.”

It’s a heartfelt moment, and finally, it’s resolved. Matt orders that she stays with the Blade back in the trucks, shooting only from a distance and is under no circumstances allowed to leave the trucks. Pidge laughs, and nods, then waves towards the truck, "I'll throw molotovs with your name on it and cheer you on like a high school teenager. I'll be okay, Matt."

Kolivan leads her away to their prized possession, the best truck of the bunch with a hatch at the top and the spray painted hood, and Matt watches her go. Slips his hand into Shiro’s. The three of them watch as Terry approaches her carefully, wishing her luck with an awkward smile and Hunk's glad that she's got someone to relate to, now.

“She’s growing up too fast for me, man. I can’t handle it.”

Shiro laughs, and Hunk turns away, back to the task at hand.

It takes a while longer, and finally as the sun begins to climb higher into the sky, they’re ready. The camp cheers them on as they clamber into the trucks and prepare to depart. He sees Jeanine, front and center holding one of the guard’s hands and waving excitedly at Hunk in his big yellow truck. She smiles wide and happy, and screeches out, “Bring them home!”

He will. He turns on the radio, the speakers, and Rihanna’s _Umbrella_ blares over the speakers and sends vigor among the departing fighters. Cheers can be heard from all trucks, lined up and filled to the brim with rescuers and a swell of pride takes over Hunk. He tunes out the cheers as they ride down the road, thumb skimming over the empty CD case.

Hunk will get them back, and the Galra will have hell to pay. It's gonna be hard, difficult, annoying and dangerous but he needs to help his friends. He’s going to save them. Rihanna sings out, “said I’ll always be your friend, took an oath and I’ma stick it out ‘til the end,” and he believes it.

He’s gonna bring Lance and Keith home, no matter what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH. so yea...........hope u enjoyed the little hunk leadership role. he's stubborn and he'll do anything for his buds, i think-- aka balmera episode lol. hope you enjoyed though, sorry it's a bit short!
> 
> also holy shit 3k views...???????????? im literally speechless wtf. i never thought this would get big at all and im so happy everyone who's reading it is still enjoying it! thanks for sticking with me for this long :)


	14. come home to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ warnings: forced drug use/hallucinatory scenes in this chapter ] you have been warned.
> 
> also, i tried something new here-- a lot of this chapter is heavily influenced by music and i had to listen to a lot of mood-altered music to be able to write this the way i wanted to. to fully hear and experience the music and its connection/set placement, i recommend reading and digesting each portion of music-driven scenes slowly, and as fully and imaginative as you can. one link (the mission link) does lead to a playlist, by the way (lance's sweet summer tracks of 2016 lol)
> 
> the music is completely optional though, and you definitely don't need to listen to what i provided!
> 
> alternatively, and tbh my preferred method when i read this, is listening to one specific song. if you feel like you want to play a song on repeat, i definitely recommend "heaven" by PVRIS for this. [here's the link!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJiRx6PTpyw)
> 
> finally, this chapter contains about three in-chapter pov changes. each of these are indicated by a centered page break, and a name. hope you enjoy.

Keith is a wreck. Not a good wreck, like the mess he is post heavy petting and makeout sessions with Lance, but instead a painful wreck. His body hurts even in it’s time of rest, because more often than not they’re getting copious amounts of blood drawn and drugs, prescription and otherwise, pumped into them as often as possible. It keeps him alert, awake and yet exhausted all at once. He’s lost an insane amount of blood in three days, and he’s not sure his body can keep up any longer.

It gets worse when Lotor shoves tabs of LSD on their tongues (Keith doesn’t want to know where he got it from), and they start tripping _bad._ It’s not fun, it’s not pleasant, and he feels ants and spiders crawl up all his body and his face melts into a puddle on the ground. He’s forced into solitude during one trip, and he loses himself. Stops believing he’s Keith and starts acting Galra, snarling out at Lotor as if their roles had been reversed. At one point, things start peering into his vision and he sees his mom, brains and slush pooled on his lap and he screams. Then his eyes start itching and he feels like there’s lye crawling into his scalp, singing its way to his brain and trying to sear him from the inside out. Hot, hot anxiety pulses in his belly and he throws up whatever’s left in there, but the panic never subsides. He feels the room close in on him, trying to crush his bones and pierce his heart. There’s eyes all over the walls, deep blues watching him and he starts hearing things. He fucked up, he got them into this mess, they would’ve never gone after Lance if he just _stayed away–_

It’s terrifying, horrific and nothing he wishes on anyone– as it turns out, Lance had no better of a time. When they return to each other, the looks on their faces tell it all. Lance tells him in the deep of the night that he saw his brother, asking him why. Why, why, why, why, why? He tells him he saw Keith, crawling on him like he was made to meld and feel and breathe Lance, and how only seconds later, eyes glazed over and he slumps against Lance’s chest, bullet in his head and eyeballs popped out of his skull. They fall silent, and strain to press weak kisses on each other’s faces.

He tries to block out that time of solitude as best as he can.

Keith likes it best when muscle relaxants are forced into them. Maybe it’s not the best of situations, but it helps him relax and calm down. He feels grounded when he’s there, and he gets to be around Lance during these times. Lance would tip his head back and smile lazily up at the ceiling, and Keith pretends that the light above is the sun. It’s nice, it’s calm. It’s okay.

Under no circumstances does he agree that he should even be drugged in the first place– he’s almost certain it’s for Lotor’s personal entertainment. Not that Keith is too surprised, he’s just angry that he has to deal with this crap. He’s pissed, he’s tired, he wants to go home and Lance isn’t faring any better. In fact, he’s probably doing worse, considering how he’s almost always slumped over as of late.

Lance looks gone, most of the time, like he’s projected his soul out of his body and lost all vigor to fight back. He’s mostly silent despite Lotor’s jests, which only fulfills the bastard's death wish of absolutely breaking their spirit. He’s gleeful with Lance’s newly adopted attitude of quiet, and takes every chance he can get to push him further. The only thing Lance can do is flinch and jerk away when Lotor touches him, or bite back some half-assed reply about Keith’s hair. He is quiet around Lotor, but around Keith, he talks more. Lance talks about how many times he’s counted the tiles on the ceiling, and how many times he looks into a Galra’s eyeballs and thinks about gouging them out with the IV needle in his arm, and Keith encourages him. He joins him– jeers at the guards watching them and calls them cowards for not wanting to face him. Talks about different ways he can kill them. Talks about skinning every one of them alive, ripping out their jugular and serving it up as breakfast. Maybe it’s fucked up, but he doesn’t care. He’s lost all shits to give, and now he makes it his daily endeavour to call them out on their bullshit.

Bullshit, as in, why the _fuck_ do they want Keith so bad. His mom betrayed them, so what? There’s no government left to hide from and the world is on the brink of destruction anyways, so why the hell is there so much hyperfocus on his character. It’s not like Keith is wicked smart like Slav, Allura or Coran, nor has he managed to take out half of the Galra’s army like Shiro and Matt. He’s not even tech smart like Pidge or Hunk, and he _certainly_ can’t charm someone into joining the Galra like Lance. He’s just– Keith. He can swing a machete pretty good and run pretty fast. He’s stubborn and throws himself into things too fast, and he cuts himself off from people easier than he’d like to admit. Yeah, he’s impressive, but what about him is enough to chase him for nineteen years even if all he’d ever done is _run?_

Keith tries asking, of course. He knows something’s up when they’re getting their afternoon dosage of what-the-fuck-ever (by _Haggar,_ nonetheless), and the words come out against his better judgement. Maybe he should know a little more by now about saying things he’ll regret when there’s a needle jabbed in his arm, but he doesn’t care. Not anymore, at least.

“Why were you after me so bad?” he grunts out, and Haggar huffs indignantly. Figures. “I don’t get it. Why– why _me?”_

Haggar stabs the needle a little too hard, and grumbles out a “be quiet”. That’s the first cue that tells him something is up, because unlike every other time where she sticks around to observe, she leaves. The guard watches them and Keith just glances down at himself, questions still heavy on his tongue. He needs to know more.

The second time he asks, Lotor is there to administer their cocktail of the day. Lance leans his head heavy on Keith because their chairs are closer together today, and Lotor hasn’t made a move to separate them. He needs the contact, because whatever they’re being fed today makes him jittery, anxious, and his feet move too much. His fingers curl into Lance’s, and the Cuban breathes a resigned sigh into his shoulder.

“Lotor,” Keith croaks, eyes sliding heavy to face the man. He’s got his signature sneer, but this time around he’s joined by one of his quieter guards. Most tended to slap around the pair and try to be as angry and hateful as possible, but this guard– she watched, silent. She reminds him of Tim, but less helpful and more..subdued. Quiet. “Tell me, Lotor– why’re you being so secretive? We’ll be dead before I can say shit about what’s going on here, so why the _fuck_ are you all so obsessed with me?”

Lotor falters. For the first time in months, no witty, annoying quip slips out of him. He falls silent, and for a second his eyes glance around, if only fleetingly. Keith hit something– hit a sore spot, a chip in his armor, and even if it isn’t enough, it’s something. He doesn’t get the chance to ask again because Lotor leaves almost immediately, and Keith feels his boyfriend stir.

“Did you see that?” he clips out, and his head pulls himself from Keith’s shoulder. “He hesitated– you hit a nerve, or something. We gotta– gotta push at that button.”

Keith nods, eyes wary as a guard peeks into the room, takes a slight look, and moves away from the door. The Korean relaxes again, and fumbles for Lance’s hand and squeezes tight. He’s so very tired. “Lance,” he lilts, influx of his voice heavy, “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”

Whatever they had today puts them to sleep for a while, and it’s not the most pleasant of sleeps. He dreams, deep and hard and painful but it’s nothing new. He always dreamt like this, but never so vividly, and he can feel everything from the crown of his head to his fingertips to his toes. Lately, everything felt so real that he wasn’t sure anymore if it true.

[Today he dreams about his friends.](https://youtu.be/94jABJjpDrc) It starts off normal enough; he’s learned that with whatever they’re shooting him up with, lucid dreaming has become a norm for his brain. As most do, he finds himself standing at the door frame of Pidge’s room, and she’s lying on her bed flipping through some comic book. There’s bandages wrapped tight around his midsection, and little Rover is nowhere to be found. Keith flits his eyes around the room, and takes it in like a breath of fresh air.

It’s very… _Pidge._ There’s clothes strung every which way and he’s stepped on wires and computer carnage more times than he can count when he makes his way to her bedside. His feet ache, for some odd reason, but he elects to ignore it and sits at the chair beside her. Pidge just sort of glances at him, and nods quietly and goes back to her comic. He doesn’t know why a question heaves out of him then, but it does. Slow and with a fumbling mouth, he asks, “Why did this happen?”

“You’ve seen how everyone’s been acting lately,” she mumbles, and bites at her bottom lip. Her eyes gaze at the page before her, but Keith can tell she isn’t reading. Her fingers clench against the comic book and she sets it on her lap, then her hands rest on her stomach. Something about this is so odd. “We should’ve seen it coming. You shouldn’t beat yourself up about it.”

Keith doesn’t know why he keeps talking, or how everything feels so dreadfully wrong even if he has no idea what’s happening. He keeps asking though, keeps making small talk about shit he doesn’t know– doesn’t want to know. “I could’ve done something, Pidge.”

“How were you supposed to know they’d do this, dude? There’s no one to blame but him, so stop worrying about it. I’m sure that,” Pidge’s voice turns garbled, “...will do something about it. It’s not like this is exactly easy to get out of.” Pidge pointedly turns her head away from him. That’s the end of that conversation, he supposes.

Keith gets up with curled fists, and like a locomotive on a train track, drives his feet towards Shiro. He sort of feels like he’s having an out of body experience, like he’s being controlled in a video game and Keith is just the playable protagonist. He’s steered towards Slav’s building, and his feet ache a little bit more but so does his chest. It constricts tight around his chest, like a boa squeezed around his heart and he takes a moment to breathe. Remember his surroundings, but he finds that difficult too– why is he even here?

His feet take him to a room, two floors away from Slav and tucked into the deepest corners of the floor. Physical Keith is definitely not nervous being here, but Spirit Keith wants to tug at himself to turn away. This place screams _bad,_ and something is so claustrophobic about the hallway they go down. He can hear someone whimpering, soft and pained and he just wants to run away before he’s forced to deal with it. Physical Keith turns the doorknob, and he’s greeted with a sight all, all too hard. Too horrible, makes Keith want to self destruct on the spot and clean his eyes with bleach and scrub his brain so he’s never forced to see this again.

A dim lightbulb hangs above his head, swinging by a cord and lighting the room if only a little. His brother stands before the man, arms folded and looking down at him with a cold, cold expression. He is far too distant, angry and the pipe clattered on the floor does nothing to ease his rising heartbeat. His eyebrows furrow in frustration, and he slides his eyes to look at Keith– but this doesn’t feel right. None of this does.

Lance is sitting in a chair. Arms strapped down like it is in the real– the real world, real world, and wrists raw and red. His head is tipped toward and clumps of hair have fallen out of stress or otherwise, Keith doesn’t know. Blood spills like a fountain from his mouth, burgundy pools sitting at his feet so stark against the white tile. His nose is bent at an unnatural angle, and most of his fingers are snapped in ways he didn’t believe possible. There’s blues mottled on his arms and ankles, and he looks like absolute shit. But the high, painful whimper that escapes him when his brother speaks twists Keith’s heart.

Only, it isn’t his brother. He looks, hard and well and that image shifts. Grows more lithe, more hair, more cruel until he’s met with Lotor’s calculated eyes. Those terrible eyes blink and he beckons Keith over, smile on his cheeks and Spirit Keith’s throat clogs.

“Nice of you to join us, Keith!” he says, all chirps of joy and happiness and Keith feels so revolted. Why is this happening, why is Lance in that chair, why, why, why is he walking forward and putting a hand on Lotor like they’re friends? Like they’re the best of buds and this isn’t completely fucked up.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, and uses his toe to pick up Lance’s face. He looks like hell, all blood and bruises and swollen eyes. Keith’s head is blaring sirens and he’s trying so hard to move his limbs, untie Lance, do fucking something. But he can’t. “Get anything out of him yet?”

“Nothing,” Lotor sighs, and runs a hand through his hair and cocks his hip. “You want to try? You are my best soldier, after all.”

That’s when it clicks. The storm finally brews in his head and he’s screaming at himself to stop, don’t pick up the fucking pipe, let him _go_ why the fuck is he doing this. Why is he a Galra? Why is Pidge a Galra? It snaps, and snaps and snaps together like a jigsaw puzzle and the pieces form the pretty picture of his deepest fears. Maybe he’d never met Lance, all those months back in Pomona with the sweltering heat at their necks and Lance’s dazzling smile and Hunk’s warm grins and Lance, Lance, he never got to experience Lance. Never got to kiss the scars on his back, never got to stargaze and hold hands like middle schoolers, never got to feel those strong arms around his waist and the whispered sweet nothings in the dead of the night when life got too hard for the both of them. Never got to see Shiro again, his own fucking brother who was probably out there searching high and low for Lance like he would’ve if it was him, and the thought makes him sick to his stomach. All of this happened– all because he never got _Lance._

So they’d turned their backs away from Pomona, wiping their brains of all those memories and become another carbon copy of a Galra. Dutiful, brainwashed, delusional, obedient _Galra._ In this reality, among the millions he remembers Slav rambling on and on about like it was his fucking job, he was the one he fought so hard to keep away from him. Now he’s just a soldier, ready to bend backwards at Lotor’s whim– kill people because Lotor told him to. It’s chilling, even moreso when Physical Keith talks to Lance with such venom, and finally, the pipe swings deep into his boyfriend’s skull.

Keith snaps awake with a scream, ripped from his throat and he scrambles for purchase. His seat doesn’t tilt back, but Lance’s eyes on him cause that panic to bubble in his throat. He’s still seeing things like his broken nose and the bloodied chin and his splintered fingers and Keith _wails._ Teeters forward and IV bag be damned, lunges and wraps himself around his boyfriend. Lance is awake, eyes numbed and tired but very much awake and he is aware of their surroundings. The guard does nothing but watch curiously, and Keith blubbers like a baby into his shoulder. For the first time, in all the time they’d been there and all the months he’d endured of this apocalyptic shit, he cries. Cries for _real_ this time, hands fisted into the bloodied cloth of Lance’s shirt and sobs, curling into him tight and just revelling in the warmth of him. Lance’s arms encircle him shortly, rubbing his back and whispering quiet phrases of “you’re okay”s and Keith just knows he is not okay. He is not okay, because this will haunt him for days on end because of some devilish fuck named Lotor who was just out to get him and the last thing he considered family. Keith cries and cries and cries, tears rolling down his cheeks and lips pulled into a tight frown and he feels that crashing, burning, roll of emotions compressing his chest like an airbag. 

“I love you,” he whimpers, between pained sobs and reflections of everyone he’s ever cared about and loved and needed and wanted and _had._ He thinks about his brother who’s tearing tooth and nail to find them, Pidge who’s too stubborn to wait around for them to show up, Hunk who’s got too big of a heart and too much drive to not look into every possible nook and cranny for them, Matt who ruffles Lance’s head even though he’s miles taller and noogies Keith because dammit that’s what big brothers do and would give anything to keep all of them safe, Allura who’s got the future in her delicate palms and would drive a harpoon through Lotor’s skull when she finds out what he’s done, Coran who’s got years ahead of them all and still pulls through every step of the way to help, Shay who presses quiet kisses to their temples after hard missions and is so deadly and matronly all at once, little Jeanine who’s probably sitting on his bed and holding the stuffed dragon he’d found for her as an icebreaker and misses him dearly, and he thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks so hard about these people. He loves them, it hits him with the force of a thousand suns that he loves these people more than his little nineteen year old heart can take, and he curls harder into Lance. Sobs, wails, cries, blubbers, everything in the book until he can’t take it anymore. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so fucking much I’m so– so sorry, god _fuck_ I love you so much.”

That night, something happens. His heart clutches too hard and Lance kisses him with the desperation of a final moment, and their arms curl tight around each other and they just wallow in their own self misery.

That night, they crumble.

They break.

The following morning, they are thrust back into the warehouse with shackles around their wrists and empty, dead eyes. Any hope they had in their hearts is vanquished, and they are a shell of who they were. If it’s anything significant, Lotor doesn’t seem to notice the change, and it hits Keith that maybe, just maybe, they’ve been worse off than they thought.

It’s weird, though, there’s a shift. Haggar looks nervous, which is entirely wrecking Keith’s predisposed attitude of her because he never thought that this evil witch lady could be anything but vicious and grumpy. But he is proven otherwise, when she starts pacing around Lotor and pulling him to the side for hushed conversations.

“Well, boys,” Lotor speaks, after the twentieth fucking conversation with Haggar, “it seems we’ll have to cut our little fun short. Some of my men have been hearing things through the grapevine, so if you’ll excuse me, I must tend to this affair.”

Lotor turns on his heel and Keith spits on his heels like a child, and they are seated on the cold concrete. He recognizes Tim’s figure and face beside them, and nudges his ankle is acknowledgement. Tim’s lip twitches into a smile but he rights himself quickly, and peers out into the group. Keith thinks absently, that if they ever got out, he’d take Tim with him. Tim and his wife from the inner tents and welcome them to Voltron with a flurry of hugs and thank yous. A rice banquet. He’s reminded of those who’ve been forced to be Lotor’s “campers” too fearful to try to leave and he vows to get them out, too. 

Tim would be a great addition to the Blade.

He rests with that thought in his mind, and a vague sound filling in his ears. Not quite sure what it was yet, but he tries to focus on it. Focus.

* * *

 

Hunk is so goddamn ready for this.

He’d been playing all of Lance’s CDs on their trip there, saving the best for last and for an absolutely epic crash of the Galra party. He’s never seen the Blade show so much emotion, fists pumping and hands beating against dashboards and hollers out the window. Matt is worse than all of them combined, half of his body leaning out the window and scream-singing “Single Ladies” (“You’re not a single lady!” Hunk recalls hearing Shiro shout, “Please get in the car!”). Pidge whoops to him from the Blade truck, but is quickly picked up like a baby by Kolivan and squashed between two Blade members who only get her to sing louder. The things he sees from the rearview mirror is amazing.

Allura leads the group, her truck meant for the pillaging of the wall so they could successfully break in. It’s impressive, how many songs she sings along to but it’s more impressive to hear Coran’s censored version of _Super Bass._ Even she’s hyped up, voicing this over their walkies and receiving many-a “Hell yeah!” from the caravan of fighters behind him. 

Eventually, they begin to near Logan and the Blade make the first move. Kolivan stays in the trucks with Pidge, but the rest of his men spring out from the trucks and make like wasps to the surround the walls. He vaguely sees Thace, who knocks his knuckles against Ulaz’s face before jumping out the car. When the Blade finally report their positions, and confirm they have not been spotted, Hunk does it.

The horizons of the camp is before him, and the cars around him get into their predisposed formation. Everyone ducks down to avoid being spotted and just make it seem like cars had just randomly appeared on the roads, as unbelievable as it was. The Blade cause a flurry of distractions as they pull in, duck, and [Hunk switches the CD.](https://8tracks.com/wrenowitch/lance-s-sweet-summer-tracks-of-2016)

 _”The future is bulletproof!”_ Gerard Way shouts over the banging of the walls and the Galra turn their attention to the car. Hunk revs the engine, feet placed carefully on the pedals and his heart pounds so hard in his chest. _”The aftermath is secondary! It’s time to do it now and do it loud– killjoys, make some noise!”_

The sight is _glorious._ Thace whistles loud and clear between the drums of Lance’s very punk rock beginning of a CD, and the Galra can only watch in bewilderment. The banging of the drums thrums through the speakers loud and full of power, and Allura hits the gas. The car springs forward and he can hear Coran’s shout of glee as the propel into the wall, just as Gerard Way starts singing about drugs and it is everything he pictured and more. The wall falls with a crippling tumble, and Allura manages to drive the car away before it can crush them, too. It tips forward dangerously and the guards all fall, landing on the ground with a heavy “oof”. Hunk doesn’t give them any time to think about what the fuck just happened, because he throws the car into drive and they infiltrate the base.

* * *

 

A crash reverberates in Keith’s ears, and Tim looks around in bewilderment. A very familiar voice fills his hearing, one that he hasn’t heard since he was a lonely emo kid during his sophomore years and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. Galran guards all throw themselves into the fray, but Keith is in a whole lot of disbelief. 

“Is this fucking...My Chemical Romance?”

Lance laughs, loud and happy and a grin spread so wide on his face it makes Keith uneasy. “Oh my fucking god,” he whispers, and his eyes meet with Tim, who was left with the task of watching them. “Lance’s sweet summer tracks of _20 fucking 16!”_

Keith smiles just as wide, then.

* * *

 

Tim knows a few things. One, he knows he really likes the teenage boys Lotor’s been putting through hell and back for his personal amusement. They’re strong, respectful young men, who have so much bursting love for each other that reminds him of his early years with his wife Minnie. He has tried his best to sneak around and keep them as safe as he possibly could, what with all the Galra in every corner of his damn business.

He also knows that Lotor is a brainwashing, arrogant jerk who deserves to be put in his place by somebody. Maybe not him, because Tim is nearly 52 and he has other fish to fry, but someone needs to. Before those boys came along, most everyone was convinced Lotor was some benevolent, heroic leader that wanted what was best for the Galra, for all of them. However, this was quickly proved otherwise among the campers (campers, he must emphasize, not the guards) when they’d witnessed a public act of humiliation of the two boys. It was eye-opening, and was enough to allow Tim to convince everyone Lotor was bad news. They were all planning to break free, soon. 

Finally, he knows this is Voltron, who will do anything to protect their own and Tim knows never to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Strapped with an arsenal of words, Lance’s code word, the familiar voice of Ken Stewart (Lance has good taste!) filling his ears and his wife in tow, he goes into the fray. He’s noticed very early on that Voltron’s only shot those who have shot first, and the leading, bulky man with an orange headband is a force to be reckoned with. It’s a little hard to dodge around and try to avoid the flurry of stray bullets and angry soldiers, but he manages it while keeping his wife safe from the fray. If all goes well, Minnie knows how to take care of herself and get the others to safety. Hopefully, with Lance’s word, they can do this.

Tim springs behind their cover and is immediately aimed at, but he puts his hands up in surrender. Minnie does the same, shying behind Tim and he makes sure to cast her a reassuring look. Finally, with all the courage his aged heart can muster, he speaks out. “Lance’s sweet summer tracks of 2016,” he says, clear and firm and the boy in the orange headband lowers his gun, if only slightly. “That’s the track name– no, that’s the playlist name. He’s got a note on there that says, “note: don’t listen while Keith is around”, right?”

The boy lowers his gun, finally, ducking down and beckoning them forward so they aren’t shot before they can explain themselves. Tim goes first, sticking a hand out in greeting and offering his warmest smile. “My name is Tim, and this is my wife Minnie– I’ve been trying to help those boys help as best as I can. What Lotor’s done to them– it isn’t right. I can help you turn the tides and get those two kids and the other prisoners to safety, but I need you to do something for me.”

The boy nods, wary if anything and Tim pats his wife’s shoulder. “We’ve got campers in here, and so many of us are scared of Lotor. We’ve been deluded into thinking he’s done it for the greater good, but that’s not true in the slightest. If I help you, can you promise me you’ll help these folks out?”

The headband-clad teen flicks his eyes to the tents, where groups of civilians watch the fiery bullet hell. A few moments pass, and finally, he takes out a walkie talkie and says, “We’ve got two here willing to help...Yeah, they’re apart of the Galra, but they’re friendlies. Kind of like you were before, Kolivan...Okay, yeah, got it. I’ll get them to the trucks as fast as we can.”

Relief floods over Tim and the headband boy offers a smile. He takes his hand and gives it a firm shake, then jerks his head to the tents. “My name is Hunk. Glad to have you two on board– can you sneak out the prisoners by yourselves?”

“I could do it with my eyes closed,” Tim boasts, and a smile stretches over his lips too. “Minnie here can help direct the campers to one of the blind openings in the camp, but we’re gonna need a distraction so the rest of the guards don’t figure out something’s up.”

“You need a distraction?” Hunk voices, and his grin stretches even wider. “Buddy, I got you.” He turns on the walkie talkie again, calling out “it’s climbin’ time, bitches!”

A wave of ropes comes crashing down the walls, landing heavy with light weights to keep it anchored as an army of soldiers come swooping down and going in fast, hard, and ready to fight. It is a sight that he will never forget in his fifty years and onwards of life, and will enjoy it while he can.

“Who are those guys?” Minnie asks, completely in awe of the sight before her.

“That’s the Blade of Marmora,” Hunk says, and re-aims his gun as the Galra begin their counterattack. “They’re awesome!”

Indeed, they are. Tim parts ways with Minnie with a kiss to her temple, and he goes to fulfill his duty.

* * *

 

[His wrists haven’t felt the sun in the past two weeks, so when he looks at them, they are raw.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJiRx6PTpyw) Keith’s wrists are red and raw and throbbing, metal having bit deep cuts into his wrists, but that is definitely the easiest thing to deal with right now.

Tim had circled back around with the handcuff keys and a newly-acquired rifle, unlocking the two as quickly as he can and helping them to their feet. “Those are your friends,” he says, and Keith’s heart swells. “They’re here to help!”

Either it was a burst of adrenaline in him, or he just wanted to save everyone that bad, Keith didn’t know. He laces his fingers between Lances, swings his arm around the man’s neck and presses a kiss to his lips, body blazing in pain but his own emotion overtaking any physical feelings. Keith feels Lance smile against the kiss, arms pulling tight around his waist and he just has a rush of joy. God, they’re going to be _saved._ They can rest and sleep and have all the fun they want because they’re free of the Galra.

Eventually, they break apart with stupidly big grins and make amends with themselves. As much as they want to return to the trucks, Keith knows he should help– even if those prisoners beat them up their first day around, sneered and spit at them like they’re cattle. So he turns to Tim, exchange a few words, and they set to help out everyone else.

It proves a little more difficult when they realize they should probably arm themselves before running into the fray. Tim calls for a pair of soldiers to come and “retrieve” the boys, and really, Keith is impressed he’s able to do anything violent in his state. As the guards circle into the warehouse, rifles drawn, they move in fast. Keith recognizes one of them as a particularly angry, spiteful guard and doesn’t have any qualms about slamming his fist into the Galra’s nose and wrap an arm around his throat, squeezing tight. It takes about half a minute, but the guard crumbles at his feet and Keith takes the fallen rifle. Lance takes a bit more effort but manages well enough, and he obtains his own weapon. They do another quick once over of each other, checking for anything that would majorly hinder the other (there is, but they both can deal with it enough) before following Tim down to the locked warehouse of prisoners.

After fumbling around with the keys for a moment, Tim throws the warehouse door open and Keith meets the eyes of the familiar faces of the first day. He sees that swirl of emotions in them; panic, joy, guilt when they realize their saviors were the ones they were either forced to hurt, or gleefully slapped around with not a care, or a hope in the world. He feels like he should be angry, furious that they’re trying to help these people– but he can’t bring himself to think that, will not. None of those prisoners deserved what Lotor dished out, and Keith was resolute in his decision to never stoop to Lotor’s level. Never– never.

It takes a bit of maneuvering to get everyone free of the locks, but they do it. Keith tries to block out the begs of forgiveness pouring every which way into his ears, and instead focus on saving the people in front of him. A few times he meets a face he remembers, who took too much joy in kicking them around like dogs and he offers a miffed expression, a hardened glare. He tries not to take notice of the few scattered corpses slumped over, far too gone for him to try to get out. He wishes them well on their journey, and eventually reconvenes with the others to help the prisoners join the escaping camp members.

Before Keith and Lance can successfully escape, a few Galra soldiers spot them and the attention turns on them. Tim throws them to cover but they are separated, and Keith refuses to let him try to save the pair, after all he’d done. He had a wife to protect, and more life ahead of him than just protecting two prisoners who could handle themselves. “Don’t!” Keith shouts, waving away Tim and pointing frantically at the trucks. “Just get out now, while you can! We can handle this!”

Tim takes one long, lasting look at them before he nods and helps usher the prisoners and campers to safety, following the open path the Blade provided. Meanwhile, Keith takes in his surroundings– they’re facing the left side of the fallen gate, only yards away from freedom but are pinned down by Galra across the field. As far as he knows, he cannot see Lotor– but worry bubbles up in him at the music blaring at the gates. Even if he wasn’t able to see, it was easy to tell that there were biters moving in on them, especially with how many Voltron members had retreated back to the trucks to prepare an escape. Molotovs have joined the fray, and he can hear Pidge’s screech of “Take that, you Galra fucks!” even above the music. 

It takes maybe ten or so minutes to carve a path for them. Lance is trying his best to aim with fucked up shoulders and dizzy vision, but he does miles better than Keith does. Keith instead instructs his friends, screaming at Hunk to retreat back so they can make a run for it. Miraculously, it works– the Galra thin out in numbers, but biters start to replace them. When his clip empties and Lance is down to nothing for his own rifle after taking out the biters closing in on them. Keith preps himself, taking a few glances around before jumping and sprinting towards the trucks as fast as he can.

In hindsight, he should’ve figured it wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed. While he manages to dodge all the bullets, he isn’t able to fight off the biter that goes tackling into his side. Keith yelps, knocked over on his back and desperately pushes at anything but the thing’s mouth. It’s slobbering and drooling all over him, and the adrenaline dissipates and with its departure, comes panic. Sheer, gurgling panic climbing in his throat like bile as he faces the biter, gnawing at the air above his face and Keith cannot find it in himself to fight back more than he is now. He’s tired, his limbs ache and any adrenaline he had is gone with assisting the rescue; he can only hope help comes.

Help comes in the form of a tan hand, clamping tight over the biter’s mouth and yanking him back with the force of a tsunami. Lance throws the biter onto it’s back, and he reels his fists back and starts pummeling it. It settles a heavy stone in his stomach, watching Lance’s frenzied and angered gaze burn deep holes into the infected’s skull as he relinquishes all his pulsing, built up anger into the biter. It’s a little worrying, seeing his boyfriend’s eyes so murderous, furious as he swings his fist into the biter until it’s bloody slush on his knuckles. Maybe he’s going overboard, but Keith can’t find it in himself to stop him, nor does he care. If it’d been reversed, he’d have treated the biter like a Galra and it would not be a pretty sight.

“Don’t fucking touch him,” Keith hears him growl into the corpse, until he’s pulled onto his feet and sent spinning into Lance’s chest. Keith looks at him, scours his hands across his boyfriend’s face until the Cuban nods, eyes sliding to see the Galra before him. They’re pinned down by the remaining members of the Blade, and that’s when Keith sees it. Follows his eyes to meet the horrified gaze of Lotor, who’s watching his Galran castle crumble and for once, Keith takes it upon himself to finish what he started. 

Lance gives him a look of panic when the man turns on his heel, shoving Lance behind cover who’s got his hand cradled and turns to his fellow Blade members. They all look at him in bewilderment, urging him to flee before it gets dangerous, but Keith doesn’t listen. Instead, he snatches the pistol out of a Blade’s hand he can’t bother to remember, and with the resolution of a man of fury and fire and red hot anger, moves in. The Galra don’t even get a chance to shoot at his quickly advancing form before he shoves the pistol in the Galra’s mouth, pulling the trigger and flinching away at the blood and brains splattering on his cheeks. He throws the corpse at the Galra’s friend, and plants another bullet into his temple before turning his attention to Lotor. The greasy fuck has wide eyes and an agape mouth, and scrambles for his pistol. Keith doesn’t let him, aiming the pistol at the hand and burying a bullet in the Galra’s palm. Lotor shrieks, Keith spits and calls him a whiny shitlord, and grabs a fistful of white hair, dragging him by the scalp to the gates. Maybe it’s overkill when he presses the pistol to his temple, maybe it’s dangerous to bring the guy along for the interrogation of a lifetime, but he’s found he doesn’t have any fucks left to give. “Any of you come after us,” Keith snarls, practically frothing at the mouth and notices the music has stopped, “I’ll fucking skin every one of you and make you into a _fucking pair of boots.”_

That gets his message along. He slams his pistol into the side of Lotor’s head, knocking him out successfully and tossing him in with the other Blade members, in case he wakes up and tries any shit. Finally, Keith turns back for the love of his goddamn fucking life, his sun and moon and stars and his oceans and everything, grasping his hand and dragging him into the now empty trunk of Hunk’s car. The speakers have been tossed out and thrown onto a pair of biters, and they speed away. There’s casualties, injuries, but all he can do is enjoy the wind feathering through his hair, and the warmth of the sun and fresh air, and Pidge’s excited screams over the walkie talkie, and Shiro’s mutter of “Welcome back, guys,” and watches the Galra camp disappear over the horizon, flames licking into the sky.

He’s ready to revel in this joy with Lance, only he stops. Lance is pale, eyes steady and void of any happiness and full of exhaustion. His hand feels a little sticky, a little warm and feels wrong, but he doesn’t want to look at that. Keith sets his eyes on his boyfriend, uncaring of any of his own injuries and curls his other hand into Lance’s cheek. 

“Lance, baby,” he whispers, soft and caring and presses his forehead against Lance’s. “What’s wrong– you don’t look so good. Can you hang on for me, just a little longer? You can smile, we’re okay! We’ll get all the medical care we need back at camp, and we can sleep and rest for a long, long time, and we can make out and do whatever we want now. We’re alive, Lance.”

Lance breathes, lilting and teetering on the edge of strained, and something in Keith’s own throat hitches. Why does his hand feel so _wrong?_

“I’m not gonna be, for much longer,” he utters, and Keith pulls away. His eyes meet the dark, dark blue oceans before him and his heart pounds in his head and his chest and his limbs feel so numb, so empty. His fucking hand is so, so sticky and warm and wrong. Wrong. 

“What do you mean, Lance?”

“I mean,” Lance croaks, pulls away his hand and cradles it to himself, and finally looks at Keith. He looks so broken, so shattered and empty and tired and his eyes full of watery tears. He is battered and beautiful and fucking breathtaking, but Keith’s throat clenches tight and he can’t find any words, because something is very wrong. 

Lance holds up his hand.

Of all things, he never expected this. Everything that Lotor threw at them, physical, emotional, manipulative and horrific does not compare because he cannot compute this. It’s just his hand, maybe, but it can’t be okay– it can’t be okay. Amputation never works, he knows that, amputation never fucking works and the ripped indents in Lance’s beautiful, warm and tan and wonderful hand cannot be taken away. He sees everything flash in his head, from waking up months ago in his boyfriend’s arms and that slow, steady crush bursting out his chest, and Latex Zombie and the afterglow of their first time, and their first kiss, and their first I-Love-You’s and he should've never let Lance punch that fucking zombie, he should've found a way to get out safer, he cannot breathe, he cannot breathe,

he cannot breathe, 

amputation never, ever, ever fucking works and there’s no fucking– 

“I’m bit,” Lance wheezes, and the first sounds of a sob pull from his throat. “I’m bit, Keith.”

The pain in his heart is unfathomable, and he does not know what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...


	15. send me to the sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we see from the eyes of the boy from cuba.

When you are on the brink of death, you learn to appreciate the little things.

That’s what Lance thinks, at least. He knew fully well there was something wrong about the way he attacked that biter that clambered its ugly little self on his amazing, wonderful, beautiful boyfriend. He knew he was getting into trouble when he throws a hand on the fuck’s mouth, and how it’s slimy, gross, infected teeth clamped down on his hand and bites him. Bites him hard, and he lets a moment of panic strike his heart before fury overtakes it. No one touches Keith– no one fucking hurts him, not anymore.

He tries to ignore it, at first. Focus on making sure that Keith makes it out okay, try not to pop a boner because Keith’s aggressive side is kind of hot, go in the trucks before he’s shot. When Keith starts holding his hand, thumb grazing the deep indents of his hand, and Lance’s stomach twists. God, this fucking sucks. He doesn’t want to look so sick, so horrified and upset and doesn’t want to feel the whirlwind of emotions deep in his belly, and most of all, he doesn’t want to look at Keith. His boyfriend looks so worried and the way his hands thread so tightly between his own, and Lance can’t take it anymore.

He tells him. His throat hitches and his hands start to shake and tears well hot in his eyes. On the brink, he learns to appreciate the little things, like Keith’s soft monolids and his wispy eyelashes and his furrowed, thick eyebrows and the violet, watery pools and bruised pouty lips and scarred clavicle, and his heart squeezes. He loves this man so much, his face and his personality and his weird tendencies and awkward conversations and he hates that he’s put him in a position. They’d only just gotten out, only just started tending to the blooming petals of their relationship and Lance had to go and get bit.

“H-hey, c’mon,” he coos, reaching his unbitten hand to touch Keith’s face. “Don’t look at me like that, dude.”

Keith flinches away, eyes aflame with anger, distraught emotions, desperation and looks at him. Looks at him, really does and clenches his fists and his jaw trembles. Lance’s ribs ache. “No, you don’t– don’t act like nothing’s wrong, Lance, you’ve– fuck, god dammit! God,” Keith slams his fists into the bed of the truck, “fucking,” fists fly into the sides of the truck, _“dammit!”_

Lance shrinks, and he hears the crackle of the walkie talkie from his left. He wills Keith to do anything but answer Pidge’s _“What’s going on back there?”_ because he wants to deal with this at camp where he can go into the woods and just leave, quietly, wait to turn so he doesn’t hurt anyone. Keith doesn’t listen, takes the walkie and Lance croaks, “Please, Keith, don’t–“

“Lance,” he mutters, incredulous and spiteful and stares at the Cuban with an unfamiliar gaze, one of betrayal, of sadness and crushes hopes, and Lance curls in himself. “Lance is fucking bit.”

He doesn’t really know why, but the cars stop. Lance darts his eyes around and Keith is looking everywhere but him, his heart screams for him. Screams to look at him, so he can see him as much as his eyes can take because he has maybe an hour left when they’ve reached camp. The cars pull to the side and he hears Pidge barrel out of her side, Hunk following close by and he tries to ignore the constricting metaphorical hands around his throat. It sinks, deeper and deeper that he’s fucking bit, and this is the end of the line for him. They might never find a cure, and he won’t see his friends, ever again.

When Lance looks to face his friends, he meets the eyes of Pidge. They are big and robbed of innocence, and they are _hurting._ Her teeth are clenched hard and all he can focus on is how eerily similar she is to her mother. People begin to gather, sorrow or guilt in their eyes, but Pidge snaps his focus to her. “Show me,” she bites, climbing onto the truck.

“Pidge–”

“Show me, _now!”_

Lance huffs, ripping his hand away from his chest and shoving it in her face, putting the mark on display for all. It’s throbbing painfully, but the bleeding has slowed yet the damage still stays. Pidge stares dumbfounded, until her hand clamps over her mouth and a choked sob scratches out of her, and her eyebrows turn up and leave deep indents in her forehead. _Don’t look so sad,_ Lance begs, and his skull throbs. Keith finally looks. Don’t look at me like that.

He can hear Hunk start to freak out, hyperventilating and clutching the truck with a whisper of “fuck, fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen” and Lance agrees. He just wanted to save Keith, make him happy, but he can’t do that when he’s turned into a gross, angry, cannibalistic infectious monster. He can’t.

“Did this– did it happen when I got attacked, Lance?” Keith whispers, and clutches the torn denim of his jeans. The t-shirt bandage is still wrapped tight around his leg.

“Yeah,” Lance breathes, and turns his attention back to Keith. “I just– I wanted to save you, but I didn’t see where I grabbed, but I didn’t– I didn’t fucking care.”

“You don’t get to make that decision!” Keith snaps, and his eyes bore holes into Lance’s skull. They are furious, and he can see his other friends slink away to give them a bit of room. Keith is angry, blazing and Lance can’t help the frustration caught thick in his throat. “You don’t just get to decide when you don’t care anymore, dammit Lance!”

“Well, what did you want me to do, Keith?! The guns were too far away, I didn’t have anything else to help you with, and I wasn’t just going to watch you get bit!”

“I can handle myself, Lance! Now you’re bit and there’s nothing any of us can fucking do– what’s the point of being a hero if you can’t live to tell it?!”

Lance swallows, hard and his bite throbs harder. “I wasn’t going to let you get bit, why can’t you understand that?”

“I can handle myself, god dammit!”

“Well, maybe I just didn’t want to see the same thing that happened to my mom happen to you, for fuck’s sake!” Keith quiets, softens, stares. “Fucking hell, Keith, I did it because I wasn’t going to sit back again. I-I wasn’t going to watch another one of those things rip someone I love apart, fuck, I didn’t want to add you to the body count! If it means I’m the one who gets hurt, so fucking be it, but I am _sick_ and _tired_ of it!” He can’t help the tears that pool over, dripping down his chin and the way his voice gives out and cracks and twists and hurts. “I am sick and tired of everyone I love dying on me!”

If his mom was there, she’d chuckle and call it their first lover’s spat. If she was there, she’d knock her hand upside his head and tell him to stop being such a big _tonto_ and talk it out like seasoned adults. She’d ruffle Keith’s hair, and say “he’s just being all big and mighty, say what you want!” and kiss Lance’s forehead and make them congratulatory garlic knots and yucca fries. But she was not there, and he is at fault for that. Remembering the way she screams at him to move his ass, run before the thing that grabs at her neck kills him too, and sets off to find Hunk. Then they all just went like that, his home falling apart. He remembers going back, and trying to take them out– but he couldn’t. _He couldn’t._

Keith whimpers, fingers reaching and gripping the hem of his Lance’s shirt before he leans forward, tipping his forehead into Lance’s chest, arms encircling his waist. Lance leans into the embrace, wrapping his arms tight around the other’s neck. That’s when he feels more arms around him, and glances to see Pidge tucked under his arm, Hunk pulling them all into a bear hug, Shiro wraps his arms around his brother and Lance, Matt comes between him and Shiro, Allura and Coran come in behind him, and the hug grows. Faces like Thace and Ulaz and Tim and Minnie come and just, hug him. Nothing more, but the silent gesture of reassurance and love and care swells his dying heart. He can hear sniffles and cries, and just for a moment, lets himself think he doesn’t deserve this. But apparently, his friends think he does– and that is okay.

Lance isn’t too sure how long they’re all wrapped up in each other, as far as his eye can see there are people hugging and crying just a little, but they all let go. Hunk wipes his face and gives him a hard squeeze, muffling the wheezing sobs in his shoulder, and Lance can only provide solace through a kiss on his forehead. God, he’s going to miss his best friend in the world, who went above and beyond to help them out and save them, and now he’d be forced to deal with losing the man closest to him. He does the same for Pidge, who’s got her hands curled into his shirt and he thinks about how much she’s grown. He’s grateful that Matt’s around, because he’s not sure how well she’d handle it without the guy around– he’s grateful to Shiro. God, _Shiro._ Shiro would be there to pick up the broken pieces Lance left behind, and if he never comes back, he’d be the one to try to fix his brother.

Keith. God, Keith. Keith with his pretty smiles and his stupidly perfect teeth, and his hotheaded all-or-nothing attitude, and the way he runs his fingers through Lance’s hair, and the way he takes charge like he’s made for it, the way he fights, he would drown in Keith if he could. Something deep in him voiced the same vice versa; he’s sure he’s Keith’s ocean and all that cheesy crap, and it hurts him so bad to have to let go like this. Go through so much, and turn around and die because he was bit, of all things. Keith would have to brave the world without him, and the pit in his stomach grows.

They continue the drive, Keith clinging desperately to him as the truck rattles down the road. As Lance’s hand pats a beat into Keith’s bony, jutting hip, he tries to remember the signs and symptoms of someone turning. Exhaustion, for one; he could definitely feel that now, soaking his limbs and making him want to crawl into a fluffy white duvet and forget any of this ever happened. Then came the heightened senses, and as far as he knows, they say you can hear and smell everything. Blood rushing, hearts pumping, the scent of pure human musk in your nose and he glosses over that as fast as he can. Then comes the heat; Lance recalls it as a sweltering fever, rolling around in the last forty minutes before you are gone. Pinpricks of heat firing on your skin like spiders, crawling into his brains and making him sweat like a sinner in church. Finally, it is the convulsions; his body cannot take the heat and starts to act as sporadically and involuntary as he can, and it rests. Then he is gone. It takes twenty minutes to reanimate, but by then, he’s not sure if it’s him anymore.

Lance pushes that all out of his head, curling his head closer to Keith’s chest and focuses on his thrumming heartbeat. It’s calm, not beating out of his chest, and that much is enough. Keith is feeling as well as he can in a time like this– now his boyfriend needs medical attention, and he should be feeling better. 

Until they have to make a choice.

– 

When they roll into the camp, it’s when the final stages have begun to hit Lance. He gets off the truck drowsy from heat and strips himself of his retrieved jacket as soon as possible. He’s been able to hear everything from Keith, heartbeat in his ears even when they’re apart and the way his blood circulates, and he just smells so– so weirdly vivid. He gets these weird hunger pangs, like he hasn’t eaten in months– which, truthfully, it’s been two weeks and they’d barely survived on what they had. 

He watches the hustle and bustle around camp trying to get everyone medical aid, or food, water, anything to bring them comfort. He denies any and all help until Allura can guide him on what to do, and avoids the pitied gazes of the other prisoners. He approaches Kolivan, hesitant to request this but knows it’s better than keeping him at Voltron. So he shakes off his nerves, pressing a kiss to Keith’s head and excusing himself momentarily from the bench. Lance marches himself towards Kolivan, whose collecting the cars from the group and debriefing casualties and major injuries to Shay. He’s certain he was on that list, because the look she gives him when he joins the pair is so full of pain and regret, and he wants everyone to stop looking at him like that. 

“Kolivan,” he croaks, wiping the sweat off his forehead yet again. God, it was fucking hot– he was starting to lose feeling in most of his limbs. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you, buddy.”

“That is?”

“Can you take Lotor?” Lance meets his shocked gaze, and glances at the Galra who’s trying not to look nervous surrounded by a pack of Blade members, and has obviously awoken from his unconsciousness. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but– it’s gonna spell bad news if we keep him around here. Your camps, everyone there is a fighter, so if he escapes, he won’t get very far. We’ve got children, elderly here and I don’t want to think of what he’d do if he got his hands into our armory. I would just really, really appreciate it–”

Kolivan cuts him off with a hand, and Lance expects the worse. Blatant refusal, saying they’ll kill Lotor instead, ruining their chances of getting anything out of the guy. Kolivan nods, gently, and the beginnings of a smile quirk on his lips. “I understand. I was planning on asking first, but it seems you have beaten me to the punch,” he grins, full-blown and Lance teeters on his feet. “Look at you. You’re in worse condition than all of us, yet you still take it upon yourself to protect everyone else. I’ve never met anyone like you, Lance.”

“Well, guilty as charged,” he sighs, and tries to ignore how shaky his legs feel.

“Your mother would be proud, I believe.”

That grabs his attention, and Lance’s ribs dig into his heart and he bites back tears. With a final salute from Kolivan, Lance turns on his heel and maneuvers his way to Keith. Which shouldn’t be as hard as it is, moving around people and trying not to bump into anyone but his feet start to give out. That heat crawls up his neck, his brain pulsating and thumping and Lance’s knees buckle under him. It hits him, as he lays crumpled on the floor and every part of his body burns, that this is it. Can’t really register Keith’s feet running towards him, a desperate plea of “Get Allura and send her to Slav, _now!”_ at the other members before he’s being dragged off to the only electrical building in camp. 

God, this is it. He’s lived twenty meager years only to let it culminate and end in a bright white room surrounded by people who look more like shit than he does. His shirt sticks to his chest, his legs are jelly and shivers crawl up and down his spine, and his head feels like it’s splitting in two but it’s not nearly as bad as everyone else. Hunk looks like he’s taken a bullet to the shoulder, bruises on his handsome face and bloody knuckles. Pidge’s hands are scraped and the bandage around her middle is a little worn, a little strained and she looks like she’s ready to pop a Melatonin and call it a damn _week._ Jesus, Keith looks the worst– broken clavicle, bruises mottling every inch of his skin, the Galra’s brand peeking over the edge of his shirt and various other injuries he can’t count. For the most part, they’d left his face alone; save for a busted lip and a bruised cheekbone. 

This is it. 

Allura approaches him gently, Lance weary and dizzied and trying his best to keep upright. The rest of them have been ushered back in case he turns prematurely, but something inside of him tells him he’s got a little bit of time. Maybe not a lot, but it is enough. Allura places her hand on his shoulder, and he drags his eyes to her face and offers a weak smile. Her face is grave, and she squeezes his shoulder tight. She looks so much like his cousin, like this.

“Lance,” she begins, looking around them. “I have no doubt you are hurting, but...I have a proposition, of sorts, for you.”

“Th-that is?” he bites, keeping upright. Slav’s set a timer a while ago, and a quick glance tells him he’s got maybe thirty minutes left. His leg twitches, and his mouth feels like a pound of salt has been thrown down it. God, he’s _exhausted._

At one point, while Allura goes off to gather her notes, Keith comes forward. He’s toting a bottle of water and with as much authority as a nineteen year old Korean teenager can muster, pries open Lance’s mouth with an order of “drink.” 

He’s hurting, Lance can tell that much. As his lips shake to get around the bottle and Keith puts his hand on the small of his back, he is hurting. Keith’s looking at Lance with such regret, and Lance just wants to pop up and scream “I’m okay!” and go on with their life. He wants nothing more than to kiss away those brimming tears, watching Lance struggle to even take a fucking drink of water. If they had the choice to keep him from turning, he’d have already been running around the camp like a jack rabbit. 

He doesn’t have that choice. He does have the choice to skim his fingers across Keith’s jaw, leaning forward and tipping his head into the tangled black mess of hair on the crown of his head. He presses the softest of kisses, and slides his hand to the nape of Keith’s neck when the other leans forward to hug him. It shouldn’t be this much effort to hug his boyfriend.

Allura comes back with a tray and a tiny binder of notes, thumbing through the pages as Pidge and Hunk pull up a seat beside Lance. They’ve lost all care in the world it seems, because they just don’t seem to mind if he turns early on. It warms his heart a little, if not terrifies him if he turns into a liver-eating monster and chows down on a Keith sandwich before anyone can stop it. Shiro joins them soon after, along with Matt and Shay, the latter of which tries to pry away Keith for some on-site medical treatment. Keith isn’t budging, burrowing into Lance like a hibernating chipmunk and Lance thinks it's so damn cute, but he needs to get help.

“C’mon, Keith,” he whittles out, prying the man’s fingers from his waist. “You’re seriously fucked up, you- you could use all the help you can get right now.”

Keith sits for a second longer before finally sliding away, head down as he’s lead to the back of the room and patched up as best as Shay can provide. He’s being grumpy, as expected, and just wants to get it over with so he can go hug Lance again. Frankly, Lance thinks the same.

Glance at the timer. Twenty-two minutes, counting down by the second. Allura gets his attention with a tap of her binder, and a grim look on her face. “We can...well, we can try something,” she begins, and heads snap up to look at her. “I-I have absolutely no idea if it works. We’ve tried it on rats who are turning, but so far all we’ve gotten is a slowed process. There’s complications, and I have no idea if it will even do anything or just lead us into false hopes, but— it’s your choice. You can try it...but I cannot guarantee it’ll save you, Lance.”

“I’m a lab guinea pig now, huh,” Lance huffs, glancing at the room. The expressions look hopeful, yet something in him tells him it’s not gonna work. God, they just look so— so _happy._ Like this is a cure they discovered, and even though he’s got a chance of dying on the spot, they can try. Save him. “...Yeah, okay. Try it.”

Keith’s rejoined them, after some seriously fast patchwork by Shay and slips his hand into Lance’s, his face oh so different from the rest. Forces another sip of water down his throat. “You don’t have to do this,” Keith whispers, and squeezes his hand tight. His voice catches, soft and strained. “What if...what if it kills you?”

“I’m already dying,” Lance notes, and cringes because that sounded a little too uncaring, a little too callous for the situation. “I might as well give it a shot. If it doesn’t work, at least that’s something that can help them figure this whole thing out.”

“One more thing,” Slav pipes up, as he strides over with a needle and syringe, as well as a glass bottle of what he assumed was that rat stuff. “You have another choice here, but this,” he furrows his brows deep, and brushes at Lance’s arm with a soaked cotton ball. “This is completely your decision. You need to figure this out before you—”

“Do I want you to kill me or otherwise, right?”

Keith flinches, eyes widening when he realizes that maybe, yeah, they’d have to kill Lance. Pidge clutches the denim of her jeans and muffles a whimper into Matt’s arms, who’s taken to cradling her in desperate times. Hunk looks distraught, irreparable if he was forced to do that, and it hits Lance. He can’t force any of them to do this— that’d be cruel, terrible,

inhuman.

“You guys wanna keep me as a lab experiment?” he quips, and eyes turn to him immediately. Their faces are twisted as if to say, _that’s not funny, Lance,_ but he shakes his head. “I can’t make any of you kill me, and I’m too scared to do it myself. You guys haven’t exactly had a human subject, so here I am, and this is me giving my consent. Use my zombified self as you see fit.”

“Lance,” Keith bites, and his hand tightens. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am, and it’s my decision. Think about it— they make a cure, I’ll be the first to know because I’ll _come back._ Besides, it’s not like they can hurt me when I’m all zombied up– it’s not exactly easy to kill an infected via medicine.”

Keith worries over his lip, bringing the unbitten hand to his face and just, resting it. Lance wants so desperately to kiss him, but he can’t– doesn’t want to risk the spread of infection via spit, if that’s even possible.

Finally, with a quiet nod and a look at the timer– seventeen minutes and forty two seconds– Slav injects him with the miracle rat medicine. It’s a rather long needle, and he winces as it’s stuck into his arm. Slowly, the syringe empties of the clear liquid, and they wait. Lance doesn’t really feel anything. A few minutes pass, and he’s beginning to think that it’s just flat out not working, when it hits him like a bus. Maybe it’s just how his body is beginning to turn into a freaky infected monster, and something about his immune system– Shay, fill in the blanks here– doesn’t want to be slowed down, whatever. He lurches forward with a groan of pain, clutching at his stomach and scrambling for the nearest bucket, anything he can empty out his bowels in because holy _fuck._ His brain feels like it’s being ripped apart and he’s starting to twitch, and commotion around him resounds as Slav shoves a decontamination bucket under his mouth.

“His body is reacting the same way the rats did, but I haven’t seen it happen so violently,” Allura explains, panic ebbing into her voice as Shiro forces the rest of them to back up. Keith breaks away, though, running to Lance’s side and rubbing his back. Lance just keels over, hurling into the bucket like it’s his damn job, and eventually, the pain subsides. He coughs, and coughs and coughs until his throat is itching and takes a final glance at the timer.

Twelve minutes. Lance had been puking for five whole minutes, and he’s not even sure if any of it worked. He highly doubts it; he feels more exhausted than ever, but his senses have dulled down. He’s pretty sure it’s because he spent a rather extensive period of time puking his brains out, and the man lets out an huff. “I don’t think it worked,” he grumbles, wiping the pearls of sweat off his forehead. “Maybe it slowed it down, but I doubt I got anything more than a minute or so. You might as well start a stopwatch, see how long I last.”

“Don’t say that,” Keith utters, keeping his hands on Lance’s back as Shay carefully wipes away any bile off of him and the floor. Slav runs off to incinerate the bucket, and Lance is carefully sat back down on the autopsy table– _hah,_ ironic. “Don’t just act like this is a waiting game, Lance. It sucks, it sucks a lot to watch you just fucking turn. After all we’ve been through, I just...stop treating yourself like a lost cause.”

Lance sighs, rubbing his sweaty neck and airing out his dampened shirt. “I know, I’m sorry.” The Cuban reaches for Keith’s hand again, threading their fingers and gazing out to his friends. Eleven. “I’m trying to look at positives, and the only thing I can think of is just..making myself a lab rat. Trust me, if there was anything else I could do to help out, or y’know, _not_ turn I’d take it in a heartbeat. I don’t want to die either, and I don’t want to have to put you guys through that. This is difficult enough as it is, and...I’m really, really trying guys,” he pauses, and his gaze drops to his lap. “I’m just tired.”

Slav’s replaced the timer with a stopwatch. It hits three minutes.

“I love you,” Pidge pipes up, and a few looks are shot at her. She chuckles, tired and pitiful but she still laughs. “Not like Keith does, I just...I-I love you a lot, dude. You’re great, and you’re awesome and selfless and stupidly heroic and you don’t listen to anyone, and whether or not that’s a good thing, I don’t know,” her voice breaks, and Matt places a comforting hand on her shoulder. She’s crying. “None– and I mean _none of us_ are gonna give up on you. We still love you, zombie or not.”

Allura instructs him to lay on the autopsy table, and minutes tick by. He’s got maybe nine, ten left, as he’s strapped down to prevent him from attacking the others. She reassures him that she won’t let him die, not on her watch, and blinks away tears as she goes off to retrieve a pillow– per his request, of course. Allura does it to “give them room for their goodbyes”, but she’s not able to hide the tears as she steps out.

Hunk goes up first, and wrings his hands out. He’s shaking, crying, but Lance can’t muster any energy to say a few comforting words. The heat is unbearable, and he feels like he’s going to explode from the inside out. But he listens, keeps his ears wide open to listen and tries to think of something heroic to say in his dying breath. It’s hard, but he waits.

“You’ve always been my best friend,” Hunk utters, gripping the Cuban’s hand with a weak, trembling smile. “From that moment back in the second grade when I saw my first girlfriend Jenny Culver kissing Austin from Mrs. Baker’s class, and you cheered me up by giving me the– the fuckin’ Snickers bar from your lunchbox, you’ve been my best friend. I love you, so, so much dude, and– fuck, man, I’ve always been so shit at goodbyes,” Hunk falters, shoulders tensing as a broken sob escapes him. He leans over to give him a hug, awkward in angles but Lance wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Then we’ll– make it a see you later,” Lance strains, throat dryer than a desert. He didn’t know when he started crying, but he is now and the weight in his belly heaves harder. His hands grip the back of his best friend’s shirt, reflecting on all the stupid shit they’ve ever done, and the months they spent together when Lance had no one else, and how they’d both dealt with losing everyone they loved, and just– _all of it._ He loves Hunk, Hunk is his best friend in the whole wide world and he hates to see him like this.

“Yeah.” Hunk slips out of his arms, and presses a kiss to his forehead like Mrs. Garrett did when he’d come to visit. “See you later, buddy.”

He steps away and only spares a glance at Pidge as she comes forward, and Lance absently thinks that maybe, just maybe, that rat miracle juice slowed it down a little bit. Or maybe they’re saying their goodbyes fast enough that he doesn’t notice. Lance can’t really tell the time, anymore. He hurts.

“I’ve already said my piece,” Pidge mutters, and her jaw quivers as she lunges forward, wrapping her arms tight around his neck and trying not to make her crying too noticeable. “I love you, you stupid goofball.”

“Stay– ...stay good for me, Katie,” he drawls out, and presses a kiss to her cheek. She winces, and rips away from his as fast as she’d gone in. Scrubbing at her eyes, avoiding any and all eye contact between him. 

Shiro and Matt follow the girl soon after, and Shiro looks down at him with tense shoulders and a forced smile. He looks so gone, so out of focus and Lance finds he’s feeling warmth to know Shiro does care about him, in what little time they’d known each other. Shiro leans forward and ruffles his hair, a thumb grazing the litter of scars on his cheek. Lance’s head is rattling.

“We’ll find a way,” he says, and Matt knocks his knuckles against Lance’s cheek. They remind him of his older brothers, more than he wants to think about. Shiro’s eyes water. “We won’t stop until we do, Lance.”

“When you see Lotor,” Lance falters, closes his eyes for a moment, overcomes the wash of heat. Slav tells him it’s been five minutes. “Give that sonnuvabitch the time of his life.”

Shiro can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, and Matt pinches his nose. It feels so– so calming, even when he’s said nothing and finally they turn on their heels.

Allura, Coran, Shay and Slav forgo their goodbyes. Something about having to see him every day from now on, even if it’s not truly him, and Coran says he’ll be the first to say hello when he comes back. Not if, not maybe, _when._ That’s enough for him.

Seven minutes have passed. He is so, so very tired.

Keith appears at his side, and Lance doesn’t hide the smile that graces his lips. It’s not his biggest, best smile and he wishes he could look a little more handsome in his last moments with Keith. 

“You look incredible,” Keith whispers, and lets their foreheads touch. Lance figures he must’ve said that aloud, and shivers when their noses brush together. Keith is so cold, yet Lance is a fiery mess. “I love you. I love you so much, you– you fuckin’...god, I love you.”

“I love you too, cowboy,” Lance teases, and he wishes he wasn’t bound so he could run his hands through the velvety locks dangling on his cheeks. He’s so breathtaking, even when he’s breaking down and his tears drip on his cheeks like rain, and he’s got bruises and bumps and blood, but Lance still thinks he looks like a dream. 

“I’ll come back for you,” he utters, and presses a desperate kiss to the corner of his lip. Lance thinks, absently, that this is how it happened the first time around. He’d tell him he missed, but it’s hard to talk now. His eyes are drooping. “I’ll be here for you, waiting. I love you so fucking much, Lance.”

A final kiss reaches his eyelids, and Keith pulls away and stands just a little closer than the rest of them.

They say you see your life flash before your eyes, when you die.

Lance does. He sees his mother, pressing Transformers bandages to his scuffled knees and kissing them, and the pain magically goes away. He sees many things, like his brother on his first day of kindergarten walking him to the door, hand in hand and kissing his forehead goodbye. Wishes him luck at school. He sees that memory of Hunk, passing him the last Snickers bar he had in his little snack pantry, smile on his face and tooth missing and how they’d been linked at the joint from then on. Thinks about meeting Pidge, after nearly running her tiny little self over with his bike when he was nine years old and she was barely six, and getting an earful from the illustrious Samuel Holt. How she’d started programming when she was barely ten, and the weird, useless inventions Hunk would make when he was that same age, and how that kick-started their uncanny ability to make shit happen. His heart swells at the thought of his family, on his seventeenth birthday, gathered around a white buttercream cake with maybe too much icing, the CD Alex burned for him that’s sitting somewhere in a backpack right now. Thinks about his first girlfriend Plaxum, then the day this happened, and then he thinks about Keith. Keith, and how radiant and dazzling he was that first day they stumbled upon each other in Pomona, and how closed-off he seemed and how much Lance wanted to break his walls down. Then came the blooming red rose that was Keith, a dime in a sea of pennies and how much he loves him– how much he loves all of them. Loves them all so much, and his throat clenches tight. Lance holds tight to those memories, the little things.

His breathing slows. Maybe he will see his mother again.

“Don’t look,” he grovels out, eyes lidding closed and hopes they hear the desperation in his mind as loud in his voice. “I don’t want you t’look.”

His fists clench against the metal table, eyes a sea and storm of tears and his heartbeat slows. He is exhausted. He wants to just, sleep. 

“I love you,” he says, to no one in particular. Wet eyelashes beat against his cheeks and those final beats play out, slow, soft, like a harp on a summer’s eve. His fingers spasm, his leg kicks a little, and he lets his eyes shut. He sees them all, smiling and happy and he wishes that maybe one day, he can join them again. Hold hands as they frolic on a beachside and kiss each other’s cheeks and lets those dreams drift him off to sleep. The sounds of the salty sea chime in his ears, as his heart is carried out to the ocean.

His eyes close. 

He rests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter LITERALLY broke my heart writing it. im gonna need a bit of a break after writing this-- we've got four more left, guys. four more updates.
> 
> fuck, man.


	16. tell me, little brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, so forewarning. this chapter took a LOOOT of character liberties here. i tried to imagine keith and shiro being brothers who got along well and could help each other with anything, but in light of s3-- i can't see that, man. so i decided to take keith, and sort of ...put a twist on how i've portrayed him prior to ch 16. idk, maybe its just me who's thinking i did something, but yeah.
> 
> it's like, probably really ooc on both shiro and keith's characters, but i couldnt care less bc god dammit dealing with death is not!! easy!!! or rational, might i add!
> 
> anyways. enjoy.

Shiro is generally pretty good at understanding Keith. His brother is an enigma of personality, stoic expressions mistaken for anger when in reality he was just bored, gets too hot headed and temperamental for his own good, tends to pour himself into a person when they’ve earned his trust. Most of the time, he knows exactly what to do to comfort his brother in a dire time of need.

However, this is not the case this time around. At least, he doesn’t think it’s the time for his wisdom– Keith just lost his long time friend– no, _boyfriend_ and the way he’s acting as he stares out at Lance’s stilled body is nothing like he’s seen. He’s seen Keith sad, he’s seen him distraught and none of it is like now. Keith would be silent, aggressive, trying to plug the worst of it out of his head– he wouldn’t look so empty.

But Keith is just _standing_ there. Lance has been gone for approximately two minutes and he’s just staring at his body like the guy’s gonna pop up and yell, “Sike! Gotcha!”, but nothing is happening. Keith’s got his lower lip tugged between his teeth, and he’s letting quiet tears roll down his cheeks, and he is a man caught in the face of a freight train.

It’s only when Slav kicks them out, does he really do anything. Shiro tries to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Keith rips it away. Violently, too, reeling back and hitting the wall with more force than he’d bargained for. The boy groans, clutching at his clavicle but nonetheless avoiding their gazes. He stares down at his feet, shoulders shaking as a hiccup leaps out of him, then a sob, then he crumples to the ground. Keith starts crying– no, he starts _wailing,_ fingers digging deep into his arms and Shiro winces. He’s never heard him cry like this– not since the first night he’d spent while the Shiroganes fostered him, sobbing like he’s lost everything in the world. It’s one thing to hear about someone dying– but to watch them slip away from your fingers like grains of sand, that’s a new world of pain.

Half of Shiro doesn’t want to deal with this– Lance is dead, they have no idea if he’s going to be able to come back, and he’s already feeling like shit because of it. It’s no help when he hears the others break down, Matt clutching at the door knob like he’s ready to run back in electroshock Lance back to life. He’s being spread rather thin here, but a silent glance between him and Matt– _you handle the others, I got Keith–_ reminds him he is a big brother with responsibilities. Matt presses a kiss to his sister’s forehead, leading them off to the med bay with shaking hands. Shay exits the room some time after, and he visibly sees Keith fold into himself at the sound of a familiar raspy growl resonating from Slav’s room. He needs to get Keith away from here, now.

“C’mon, Keith,” he utters, soft and gentle as he tries to pull the Korean to his feet and away from the noise. The growling gets louder. Keith doesn’t budge. So, instead of dealing with Keith ceasing to function when he realizes that growling belongs to his boyfriend, he pulls Keith to his feet and swings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

That’s when he’s set off. Keith starts screeching like a child throwing a tantrum, kicking at Shiro’s stomach and pounding his fists against his back. He’s maniac, screaming at Shiro like he isn’t inches away from his ear, and Shiro drags his brother outside kicking and hollering. And of course, the camp members are gathered outside witnessing Keith’s snotty-nosed, furious tantrum when they’re still dealing with the aftermath of the rescue. Nothing seems to calm Keith down, even at the sight of people blatantly gathered around to watch the spectacle. Shiro would be embarrassed, if he wasn’t trying to help the kid get back to earth before he did something stupid. 

He sets Keith down and is immediately met with a barrage of fists, all half-hearted in their attempt to harm him. He lets the other go through the motions, and only listens to the earful of complaints he’s got to make.

“Why’d– why’d you fucking do that?! Why’d you fucking do that Shiro, I-I need to be there! I need to take care of him, god dammit, Takashi! He’s still fucking in there, god, oh god, I gotta get back to him, move out of my fucking _way!_ I need him, I need to make sure he’s okay, and, oh my– fuck! Fuck! Move, move, move,” Shiro stands a firm wall at the entrance to the building, “jesus, you don’t fucking get it!”

 _That_ sets him off. He knows that maybe, yeah, he isn’t in a shithole right now like Keith is. He has no idea how much he must be hurting, but he thinks it’s something akin to how he felt when Matt was captured. The difference, the cinder block heavy difference between the two of them is how the situation is dealt with, and frankly, Shiro thinks he needs to calm the fuck down. Knowing Keith, he’d make some dumbass decision like run off and steal a car and try to fight off a herd, because that’s how reckless and raging his little brother is. From day one, he’s dealt with frustrating emotions either with complete solitude, or he takes it out on anyone near him. Right now, it is the latter, and Shiro is firm in his resolve to lose his fucking mind.

“I-I don’t get it?! I don’t _get it?!”_ Shiro shoves back his brother, and it is entirely childish, and the camp grows silent. He’s never snapped in front of them. “You do not– do you hear me, Keith? You do _not_ get to make those kind of assumptions! Acting like I don’t give a shit about Lance, god dammit, of course I do! You don’t think I’m hurting? You don’t think we’re– we’re all fucking hurting? You weren’t the only one in that room, Keith! You weren’t the only one who lost Lance today!”

“It’s not the _same–”_

“Hunk has known him for– god, what, sixteen _years?_ Maybe he isn’t head over heels for him, but he is in pain, just like you are! Imagine if that was Katie– imagine if that was me! It is exactly the fucking same and you know it. We have all lost him today, and you do not get to go off on your temper tantrums and get yourself killed too!”

“That’s not fucking fair, Takashi! It’s not, it’s not, I just want to see him, _please,”_ Keith pulls black locks of hair through his fingers, ink against his pallid skin. 

“It is completely fair. You’re acting like you’re the only one who’s lost someone today, and we all want to see him as much as you do– but right now, you are not in the right state of mind. I’m not gonna let my little brother run away and do some stupid shit because he’s hurting. I get it, yeah, I get that this is hard and believe me, I know the feeling better than you think. But I am not letting you see him until you get your head out of your ass, Keith.”

“Fuck you, you can’t– you just can’t decide that! You can’t, you’re not my fucking dad, and I’m going to see Lance!”

“You are not!” Shiro is yelling now, face red and fists clenched and he suspects he’s a mirror image of the little brother he’d raised for nearly eleven years of his life. “You are not, and that is final, Keith! Now get your ass to the med bay before I turn you around and get you there myself!”

Keith stares him down, eyes ablaze with fury and a heat that could rival the sun, curls his fists tight, and rips a frustrated scream before turning sharply on his heel and stomping towards the tents. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, opening up for him to get some better medical aid in a more suitable environment. Shiro watches him go, teeth gritting and shoulders tense. Keith likes to drain the life out of him when they argue, but they hadn’t argued that badly, that nasty since Keith was twelve and Shiro tried to stay in-state for a local college. Jeez, he never knew the kid could hold so much anger until then. 

Shiro counts to ten, under his breath. He has to calm down, like seriously chill out because that entire situation got way out of hand. Maybe he was being a little bossy, a little bit of an ass, but Keith is the type to never understand something unless you’re hollering it in his ear. And he hates being so mean when they’d just watched Lance die, not even minutes ago, and that bubbling of nauseous regret pillows in his stomach. 

Matt breaks him out of his stupor, gentle hand placed on his shoulder as he jerks his head back to the house, still tending to the other two. God, they’d witnessed that, and he felt like an even bigger ass forcing them to hear the two brothers duke it out, so soon after Lance. Hunk looks so tired, so exhausted and Shiro just pulls the man into a hug. It’s a little awkward, because Hunk is just a tad taller than him and he has to maneuver his head so it rests comfortably on his shoulder, but it works. He hugs him tight, prosthetic carefully cradling the back of his head as the poor guy rattles a thick, pained sob out of him. They’re all a big mess, but he can’t just focus his attention all on Keith in an attempt to help the rest of them. They all need a pillar, right now. So he leads the rest of them to the houses, sparing a glance at the med bay and posting a few guards at Slav’s building. 

They all sit in the living room, wringing over their hands and letting the last of their tears dry up. Shiro thinks hard, tries to push his worry out of his brain and focus on the loss they’d faced today; it was devastating, but only pushed Shiro to search harder. Now that they’ve got Lotor, they’ve got a bigger chance, and he knows the sick bastard’s got a lot of juicy secrets hidden away in that conniving brain of his. He’d hold to Lance’s word and sucker punch the shit out of Lotor when he’s got a shot at interrogating. If there’s anything he learned in his time in the ring, it’s that he’s good at wearing someone down.

Shiro rubs at his face, purple bruises carved deep into his eye bags and takes in his surroundings. They’re missing a distinct Keith and Lance, and he can only hope the walkie talkie at his hip will notify him if Keith tries to make a great escape. Hunk looks worse for wear; he’s immensely proud of how well the plan had been executed, and he reminds himself to tell Hunk that. No doubt he’d blame himself for Lance’s condition. Pidge has burns singed on her wrists, due to her excessive molotov throwing from the trucks with Kolivan. The man had told him that she was scarily good at making those, and is a force to be reckoned with, even at the size of a chipmunk. 

Matt. Matt’s got his sister in his lap, and Hunk is to Shiro’s right, but Matt just looks like shit. There’s a fresh cut on his cheek, various other scrapes and cuts and bruises on exposed skin. Matt’s recently taken up staff wielding when it comes to the Galra, and Shiro has to admit he knows how to work a pole— _heh._

He’s so tired. His hair is a tangled mess of waves at his neck, his eyes struggle to keep open, and it hits Shiro how much they act like fathers. Like yeah, okay, it’s one thing to be a brother, but the way he’s cradling Pidge to his chest like Samuel used to when she was four and terrified of lizards, or the way he’s got Hunk’s head in his lap and scratches his brunette locks in an attempt to calm him down. They’ve become true father figures to them, and whether or not it’s bitter irony or genuine roles they’ve played into, he can’t tell. It kind of warms his heart, just a little.

Matt’s always wanted a family. Which is weird, because he was studying some pretty extensive material in college over astrophysics and computer programming and what not, and fully expected to go to space if given the chance. Matt talked about having family like it was just going to be a thing, even if he was only 22 and in college, still.

_“Iverson is gonna kill me at this rate, man. Skin me alive. Make my bones into a broth and serve it fresh to you.”_

_“Matt, you don’t sound very productive.”_

_Matt sighed, heavy and dragged himself from the rickety desk chair to the bunk beds in their dorm. He sprawled himself across the star-patterned duvet (courtesy of Pidge) and a long-suffering groan escapes him. They’re on a midterms crunch right now, pouring over every ounce of material they’d jotted down in their composition notebooks, and it is an absolute hell. Shiro can’t keep his eyes open, Matt has given up, and a mountain of flash cards resides on their bedside table. The sight is straight out of a nightmare._

_Accepting his room mate’s decision of completely forfeiting and taking a quick nap, Shiro joins him on the bedside and they both slump back, backs pressed against the comforters and legs dangling off the edge. Well, maybe less dangling on Shiro’s end; Matt is a walking bean sprout while Shiro is the dorito with legs the size of his friend’s head._

_Shiro lets himself think, that just for a moment, Matt looks really good in this light. His hair is tousled and messy and the glasses once perched on his nose lay strewn on the desk. His eyes are wide, wondering pools of amber and he looks so soft, like sheep’s wool perched on a cloud of blues and purples. He quite likes Matt, like this._

_“You ever think about having kids?” Matt mumbles, and Shiro chokes on his own spit. It’s not that he hadn’t, it’s just that he’s practically raised Keith when their parents worked their butts off to get him into college, and that he can’t exactly up and date a girl and have a family with her because, well, frankly, he doesn’t like them. The gay bros, both out the closet to their family, but only one with enough courage to say it to the rest of the world._

_That’s definitely not Shiro._

_“Um,” Shiro says, and rubs at his neck sheepishly. “Sometimes. Keith is a handful enough, and I just, you know. College.”_

_“Yeah,” Matt huffs, “College.”_

_“...what about you?”_

_Matt turns his head, blinking into light beside Shiro and the man has to fight the blush blossoming across his cheeks. God, Matt is so fuckin’ breathtaking. “I want to,” Matt says, and his gaze turns downward. Twiddles his thumbs. “Can’t really though.”_

_“Oh,” Shiro says, and shit, now he feels like an ass. “Sorry, I didn’t know you weren’t able to have them, I just– sorry, that was insensitive.”_

_“I can have them plenty fine, far as I know,” Matt chuckles, and a smile dances on his lips. What’s so damn funny?_

_“Is it about school, then?”_

_“Nope.”_

_“Haven’t found the right person?” Shiro picks up a Rubik’s cube._

_“Negative, captain.”_

_“Um, your parents are convinced if you continue your legacy you’re going to get some mega-brainiac that plots to kill you and your sister to assert their dominance as the True Brain?”_

_“Well, that too. Also, I’m gay.”_

_“Oh.” Shiro pauses, nods, and goes back to playing with a Rubik’s cube tucked in the corner of the bed. A minute or two passes, and Matt’s gone ghostly white and looks like he’s going to puke up his breakfast, and it hits Shiro like a freight train with like, eighty elephants on it. “Oh!”_

_“Yeaaah…”_

_“Oh, uh, th-that’s great!” Shiro says, and sits up as fast as he can. Shit, gotta look cool, gotta look like he isn’t being a homophobic ass. “I’m glad you told me!”_

_“Uh-huh.” Matt shoves his friend off the bed and pointedly turns to the wall, and Shiro gets that inkling of _you fucked up._ Which is understandable, because he quite frankly did, but he doesn’t want his friend to think that he’s being rude and crass and just a general shithead. Shiro isn’t like that._

_So he does it. Spits it out like it’s the shitty fake, soggy tacos from the cafeteria on a Tuesday afternoon and curls his hands into the hems of his dirty old Pink Floyd t-shirt. “Me, too. I’m– gay, too. Yeah.”_

_Matt turns back over. Meets his gaze for a few seconds, and gets this weird expression that’s a cross between joyful and awkward and relief, and for a fraction of a moment, Shiro thinks Matt likes him too. “Oh. Nice.”_

_“Uh-huh.”_

_Shiro climbs up to his bunk, vividly aware of the way he’d been looked up and down like a pretty piece of meat and the way Matt bit the corner of his lip and the way Matt is just so, so–_

_ah, shit._

The memory is a helpful distraction, to keep him from thinking so hard about Lance and the fate that gripped his young heart. Shiro fades back into the real world when Hunk rubs his eyes and tells him he’s gonna go sleep it off. Shiro pats his head one last time, ruffling the hair and requests he sleeps well through the night. Hunk just laughs, dry and quiet and turns to the door to go calm down with Shay. Pidge is sound asleep on her brother’s lap, breath easy but under eyes puffy and red. If Lance were there, he’d massage her face until she’d somehow look more youthful, and his heart aches for the boy. Poor fucking Lance, man.

Matt takes his sister’s soft snoring as a cue to take her to bed. Scooping her up in his arms and maneuvering her back to her room, Shiro stands and paces. When he’s alone, it’s hard to ignore the matter of the fact that day: Lance was dead, Shiro was more distraught than he’s letting on, and Keith is an absolute wreck. While there’s no word from the walkies about his brother, he’s having a hard time believing the kid isn’t self destructing as he speaks. Meaning Shiro’s gotta bring him down before he implodes.

When Matt joins him again, it’s with a clenched jaw and red-rimmed eyes. He’d been crying, if not for a moment around Pidge and Shiro finds himself remembering fuck, yeah, Lance and him were friends pre-outbreak. Maybe not nearly as good as him and Pidge were, but he still cared about the guy like his own brother. Shiro had only known him since he was reunited with Keith, and he was forever indebted to the man for bringing his brother’s smile back.

What he wouldn’t give to see Keith so happy, again.

Matt slumps forward on his chest, forehead touching his clavicle and Shiro bites back the tears pricking at his eyes. Lance had done so much for them, throwing himself in the face of danger for a chance for them to live, and fuck, he’d never expressed how absolutely grateful he was. Maybe he’d said a few things here and there, compliments and praises and gratitude, but Lance had no idea the half of how much Shiro was indebted to the Lance. Now there’s a chance he might never get him back, and the thought rips his heart out of his chest and stuffs it down his throat. 

They stay like that, for a while. That is, until Matt pushes his chest and points to the door. “Go,” he mumbles, wiping the tears and looking at Shiro with a face that read, don’t try to fight me on this. “Keith needs you more than I do.”

Any words falter, and Shiro only nods. He leans forward, planting a chaste kiss on Matt’s lips before the other man strokes his hair lovingly, and nudges him to the door. The last he sees of Matt is a quiet smile and a flutter of his fingers before he’s off to find Keith.

Really, in theory, he should’ve figured he either wandered far away from Lance, or waited closely to see if the guards would leave. Christ, though, he doesn’t expect him to just be sitting there. Criss-crossed in front of the door, eyes trained dangerously on the door and Shiro can practically see the beads of nervous sweat on the guards at the door. Keith looks absolutely rabid, like any false move and they’ll get an arm ripped off before they can even alert Shiro. Frankly, Shiro thinks: enough is enough.

He huffs, and the sun starts to tug down the horizon as he pulls Keith to his feet with a forceful arm on his elbow. Keith shoots him a look, but it holds no merit when he looks more upset than he does angry. Shiro doesn’t say a word, Keith lets his brother drag him away to somewhere away from Lance, and soon they’re sitting in the front seat of a beat up two-door with a machete, two pistols, a knife, a wrench in Shiro’s palm.

“We’re talking,” Shiro says, and grips the wheel tight. Keith is silent, eyes forward. “We are talking, and we are going to go kill some things trying to kill us, but most of all, we are _talking.”_

“What’s the point,” Keith grits out, and it is all too tired and upset and too exhausted to cry anymore. He’s just a husk, really.

“Lance. You don’t–” Shiro pulls the car over, runs a hand through his growing hair and rubs at his temples. “Don’t tell me how sad you are. Don’t try to tell me that you’ll never be the same, either, because you know Lance wouldn’t want this for you, for you to just up and run away and stop caring because he’s gonna be gone for a little bit. So don’t, don’t just,” Shiro stops, scrubs his face when he realizes he’s started crying because god _dammit_ Lance was so good to them. “Don’t say that we don’t fucking understand, because we do. So just talk about Lance like you always do, because dammit Keith, he’s still here. We’ll get him back.”

A few biters start ambling in their direction, and like clockwork, the both of them clamber out the car with weapons in hand. Shiro makes the first move, eyes watering as he heaves the wrench back and makes contact with a sickening crack, grunting in effort. Keith swings the machete down on a shorter biter, and starts.

“He’s perfect,” Keith breathes, and takes note of the biters coming in from the woods when they hear the commotion. Shiro nods. “He’s so fucking perfect, Shiro, it makes me so mad. Like, who– fuck, who gave you the right to be so– like _that?_ He’s so infuriatingly handsome and pretty and charming, and, Shiro, to your left!”

Shiro swings left. “Thanks!”

Keith keeps going, mowing down the multitudes of biters coming at them. If fighting Galra taught them anything, they’re more capable than they thought. “Jesus, and don’t even get me started on his personality! He’s so, so, so sweet and soft and I’m sorry to say this to you, but he is so sexy it makes me lose my goddamn _mind.”_

Shiro laughs, honest to god laughs and wields his knife in his prosthetic. “It’s nice being ambidextrous,” he comments absently, and impales a biter with his knife hand.

“Lance was like that too!” Keith cries, and a smile curls on his lips. He looks happy, for a second. “He could do this super, super cool thing where he’d just snipe with one arm because he’s _that fucking stable,_ and just use his pistol in the other when people needed help! He– he always looked so cool, and Jeanine loved it so much, Shiro! She loved it, and fuck, I loved it too! I-I–”

“Come on, Keith,” said man twirls on his heel and slices the machete clean through two limp biter heads, and a surge of pride overcomes the older brother. “What else about him, Keith, what else?”

“He’s got– got fuckin’ eyes like the ocean,” Keith says, and the last of the biters staggers towards him. It’s slow, because it’s missing half a leg and awkwardly drags itself over to his direction. Shiro feels a little bad, and tries to will it to turn around and not get caught in Keith’s rage. “I could get lost in them. He’s like– god, I sound so fucking cheesy.”

“Cheesy is good,” Shiro pauses, and smiles. “It runs in the Shirogane family, so.”

“He’s literally an ocean, Shiro. He’s so beautiful on the surface, but when you get deeper and deeper he’s just– he’s got so many demons, and I know how fucking grunge kid that sounds, fuck, my shoulder hurts, but like...god, he’s so complex and full of surprises and Lance just makes me feel like I’m my own person, y’know?” Keith steps back so he can keep talking, and refrains from biter-slaying. “Makes me feel like I’m new and shiny and makes me feel so many things and he just– I never knew I could feel like this. Like, don’t get me wrong– I love you, and I love Pidge and Hunk and all of them, but fuck, Shiro!”

“Fuck!” Shiro yells back, and Keith finally swings his blade down.

“Fuck!”

“Fuckin’ fuck!”

“Fuckin’ shit, fuck!”

“Shit, fuck, fuck! Fuck! Spit it out, Keith!”

“I love him!” Swing. “I love him, I love him, I love him and I want to marry him, and I want to bring him back and I want him to stop suffering and I want to be rational about him, but I just– I just _can’t,_ Shiro! I can’t, and I just want to run away and never look back! I just want him to be with me, because I won't let anything happen to him again, I just won't, and I hope he stays safe with me forever, and, and I-I,” his voice cracks, the blade falls with a loud clang. “It’s my fault, Shiro. God, if I’d never– if I just tried to stop him, and maybe we would’ve been safe at camp and been okay, and we’d kiss and I wouldn’t even be, be thinking about this! Thinking about how the moment he comes back, I’m, I’m gonna stoop on one knee and tell him to marry me, Shiro, right then and fucking there, and I’ll force you to marry us–“

“I’ll steal an ordained minister’s certificate, write my name in Sharpie over it.”

“Yes, god, yes! That’s exactly what we’ll do, and I-I’ll marry him and Pidge can throw fake petals and Hunk can bring us fucking plastic rings for all I care, and I don’t even care whether I stay a Kogane, fuck does that even work? Why am I still Kogane? We’re brothers, so like, logically, I should have your last name, but I _don’t–_ oh god, is that even legal, then? Can I even get married with a fake name?!"

“Don’t think about the details!” Shiro eggs on, and encourages him. Lets Keith pour his little bumbling heart out on the concrete roads as dusk rolls over the horizon. “Just keep talking, Keith!”

“I’ll be a fuckin’ Kogane-Alvarez, or vice versa, whatever! I’ll take whatever he gives to me, god fucking dammit, I’ll take any of it! Cause I, I just, I–”

“You what!”

“I love him so fucking much, and I can’t stand being without him, Takashi!”

The dams break. Keith drops to his knees and just, falls apart. Shiro thinks about how much his little brother has cried in the past few days, more than he’s probably ever cried before, and god knows how much more when they were with Lotor. His heart breaks, and Keith’s shoulders shake and he dry heaves out raspy, tired, exhausted sobs. His mouth is just too spitty and gross and his nose is dripping something fierce, and he looks every bit of an ugly crier but Shiro doesn’t care when he pulls his brother’s face into his shoulder, like a good big brother. Keith’s arms encircle him and he just explodes into a million pieces, gut-wrenching aches of pain deep in his belly as he faces the tsunamis of emotion that is Keith’s raging heart, brain, everything. Shiro gets it, he gets it, and he starts putting the pieces together and realizes god dammit, Keith lost the part of himself that was happy. The part that Shiro tried so desperately to hold onto as he grew, the kid who loved hippos and greasy fast food and lava and loved Lance, more than Shiro thought he had in his heart, and remembers that until it brands itself into his brain. 

They watched him die. They watched Lance just...go, and knew very well beyond a building of mortar and bricks that same friend lied in wait of a cure that could maybe never come. Shiro clings to the hope that it will.

Shiro joins him at some point, and they’re just two brothers dealing with the aftermath of a shitty situation, and they both need some serious medical aid, and some serious counseling, and a whole lot of hours of family bonding. But for now, they cry on the dirty roads of Utah with a bloody wrench in his hand and a lot of pain in their hearts because they’d lost something that day.

Not just a person, not just a friend, but Lance. Lance, the camp sharpshooter, the older brother, the kind soul, the goofball, the charmer, the uplifting spirit that not a single of them could hate. 

They’d lost a part of themselves, that day.

Shiro can feel the walls beginning to cave.

– 

Shiro rubs his hands together. Keith’s holed up in his room and looking at dirty polaroids that Hunk took of his best friend, Pidge is working on gadgets to keep her occupied, Matt is right next to him, Hunk is hanging out with Shay when she’s not working, Keith when she is, and Allura’s back with Slav trying to make sense of this whole cure thing. He hasn't seen Lance in a while, but he's started letting Keith go to him. He stays there for as long as he can, until he's kicked out after hours and tries to fill the gaps with recovery. He's still really, really fucked up, and Shiro sort of regrets taking him out for a biter massacre last week; but he needed it. They both did.

Shiro is here, with Matt. They’re standing in front of the Blade’s sanctioned facilities, where a certain someone lays beyond. Their hands are intertwined and he takes a deep, shaking breath. Today is going to be a hard one, but he thinks he can handle it– so long as Matt is with him. 

They open the doors. Lotor’s creepy fucking grin meets them lazy and horrible, and he’s about ready to tear him a new one when Matt beats him to the punch. Wipes that smug grin off his face with a literal punch, cracking a few teeth out and the man steps out like he did nothing wrong. God, Shiro loves him. 

“I don’t like to resort to violence,” Shiro says, and his fists tighten. “But when you mess with my friends, my fucking brother– you mess with me.”

Lotor cackles, loud against the echoing walls of the shed and sits back up, mouth bloodied. He’s horrible. “And what do you propose to do, sir? My, I never thought Voltron would resort to this! Interrogation!”

“That’s the nice thing. See, we’re on Blade of Marmora grounds, here,” Lotor stops smiling, “so I’ve got fair game here, Lotor. I’m one of them, too, y’know.”

“Just what are you going to do, you insufferable brat?”

“I’m just fulfilling a promise,” Shiro says, and rolls up the sleeve of his Galra arm. “Got a few questions, and this arm will do the talking. I want some answers, Lotor, and if I don’t get them, well…”

 _“Well_ what?” Lotor spits, and his hands clutch the arms of the chair.

“Oh, boy.” Shiro feels his arm give a soft whirr, and praises whatever godly talent Pidge was gifted with for giving him this super stellar hand that’s got all kinds of new goodies. “I’m gonna give you the time of your fucking _life,_ Lotor.”

Twenty minutes later, the arm cools after a seriously fucked up day where he’s gotten an appropriate revenge, and Lotor is scared shitless in his chair, and he’s got more than enough information about Zarkon’s camps than needed. Back in the shed, Lotor’s missing a head of hair and he’s got one tiny bruise on his face, and Shiro didn’t even need to land a single punch. It's strange to see someone so high and mighty fall apart in the face of the Galra's creation, especially when he's left without his guards. Guess everyone gets scared of transformable prosthetic arms.

With what they've got, it's enough to start collecting information. Picking up a trail on Haggar is top priority, and the easiest way to get to her is to get to Zarkon, which is Shiro's literal specialty. It's a lead, at the very least, and Haggar's the one who started all this shithole mess; she's bound to know a thing or two about reversing the effects.

It’s time to bring Lance home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHORT CHAP AGAIN...but im just trying to pump these out fast, dude, because i've slowly gotten less and less freetime and seriously, im honest to god probably going to finish this whole shitfest in two weeks. sO BARE WITH ME, and the slowly decreased quality because im starting school and im actually dyin, buT
> 
> this is an aftermath chapter. lets see what awaits us in the world beyond.........


	17. feels like i'm drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of suicidal thoughts
> 
>  
> 
> **NOTICE  
> **  
>  8/10/2017
> 
> **there has been changes made in previous chapters that will only slightly affect stuff. i decided to bring back terry, because i love his little dorky heart too much and when i asked, a lot of you did too!  
> **  
>  i tried linking to that specific new part in the fic, but ao3's html is very limited and i can't figure out a way to get it to properly jump. so, [here's the updated chapter link](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10778139/chapters/26004765) and if you are on chrome, you can click on the tab where you find your history/settings, and click "find in page". type "Sometime during" and you should jump straight to it!  
> if you do not have chrome, just scroll until you get past the part about matt and the clockwork orange. sorry about the annoying note!

His hair is long.

Well, it at least looks long. He hasn’t cut it in three months and he’s reached a point where he’s forced to pull it up every day. Keith doesn’t want to cut his hair short, because he likes it better long; they’ve hit a point where it’s almost unmanageable, though. Keith’s been real busy, and his only downtime is right about now, when he should be resting and Pidge should be eating dinner. But she insisted on cutting it, and he lets her. He takes the scissors with a breathy sigh, and passes them to Pidge.

Her hair’s gotten a lot longer since they met the others in Pomona. From pixies to pigtails to wispy brown locks brushing her shoulders, she’s grown her hair very elegantly in such a shitty time. Her hands are a little dirty, because she spent the past half hour at with Terry and Allura to begin trying to plant seeds some ways from the camp. She could be showering off the gross grime, but she takes the scissors anyway. Dirt smudges the handles, and she gets to work.

Snip, snip, snip. She cuts until he meets the familiar length of a not-mullet, and then admires her handiwork in the mirror. It’s a little longer than he’s used to, but that’s okay. He kind of likes it, he thinks.

“Better?” she asks, soft and a little strained. She must’ve been crying.

“Yeah,” Keith mumbles, and takes the towel off his neck. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

With that, he forces Pidge back to the dining halls and looks at his reflection. There’s bruised bags under his eyes, he’s got a multitude of new scars and the one on the cupid’s bow of his lip has finally healed, and he looks real sweaty. Greasy. Tired. So Keith hops into the shower and lets himself soak, warm water pattering against his cheeks and he sighs, deep. Inhale through the nose, exhale through his mouth. The water soothes the ache deep in his bones, and when he’s spent far longer in the shower than necessary, he steps out.

Takes a good look at himself in the mirror. He’s got quite an array of scars on him, now; the split from his clavicle stands red and proud against his skin, and the brand on his back has long since peeled. He never mentioned it to Shiro, but he had Allura try to cover it up; now it’s a vague resemblance of a maroon flower. It’s not ideal, but he’d rather have a controlled branding session than have anything to do with the Galra.

Keith looks at the nape of his neck. Lifts his hair and angles a mirror just right, so he can see his new edition peeking under the wisps of black hair. In his own crappy handwriting and after some grueling sketch sessions with Shiro to replicate it, he’s finally able to see it. In black ink reads Lance, small inscribing against the plethora of scars so much so it’s barely visible. But Keith likes it; no, he loves it. It keeps him better grounded, even if he’s only had it for a few weeks. He just feels so much more secure with it, like he knows Lance is always with him, every step of the way. Pidge calls it overkill; he calls it a healthy obsession.

Obsession. Right, the past two months have been an endless cycle of dead-ends and false leads for Keith. He started his search small, raiding tiny Galra camps and demanding information if they wanted to live. Really, he was on a bit of a frenzy those first few days. Keith spent most of his time holed up in his room, hunched over Lance’s maps and marking as much as he could, clearing out Galra camps faster than the camp was able to because of his newfound vigor for fighting the Galra. It slowly grew, and when he was given the clean bill of health (read: as good as he was gonna get) by Shay, he made the jump. Started recruiting Blade and Voltron members alike on his own form of a team, tearing high and low for any signs of Zarkon, Haggar, or other high-ranking Galra officials. 

Shiro beat him to the punch; showed up at the camp doorstep with Sendak in tow, who was quickly incapacitated and tucked away with the other captured Galra in the Blade. Lotor was but a fleeting memory in Keith’s head now, and demanded Zarkon’s whereabouts; yet, all he’d gotten was some roundabout way of saying he didn’t know, and a snide comment from Lotor.

“If we knew,” he spat, and glares deep holes into the floor. “We’d have told you so we could get out of this shit, you idiot.”

Keith punches him in the face. He’s been doing a lot of things that he’s not used to, lately.

Being a leader, for one. He’s lead his teams into victories many a time, but the beginning stages were a proven mess due to his obsession with finding Haggar. He’d gotten a few people killed, got stabbed, was generally a reckless prick and blinded by his rage to truly take the reigns. It wasn’t until Shiro slapped him upside the head and told him to get his shit together or else they’d have another repeat of the biter massacre, and it wakes him up. After that, he’d slowly built a trust with his friends and worked his hardest to keep them alive, yet strived to achieve his goal of finding Haggar.

The other thing was take care of a kid. In all his nineteen years of life, he’d never once considered himself to be a particularly reputable babysitter nor role model for children. Yet here he is, in the chilly months of January after getting dressed and zipping up a thick winter coat on Jeanine. He’d become her primary caretaker, when Pidge was finally discharged and allowed on _easy_ missions, and could no longer watch her for Keith. He tries to spend as much time around her, because she’s the only thing that can keep his mind preoccupied when he isn’t fighting. 

“Ready to go?” he asks, mouth muffled by a thick red scarf and holds out the gloved hand for her to hold. Jeanine nods enthusiastically, gripping his hand with her tiny one and they head out towards the dining halls. Pidge is huddled on a bench, soaking in her brother’s warmth and Keith sits Jeanine down across from them, so he can go get them some of Hunk’s hot chocolate. “I’ll be right back, Jeanie,” he says, carefully pressing a kiss to her temple and heading up to the line with the other equally freezing camp members.

A familiar brown head of hair meets his gaze and he smiles soft at Hunk, who waves excitedly in return. They hadn’t seen each other in a week, so it’s understandable. Keith’s always gone before sunrise, Hunk is always busy when he comes back near dawn. They just don’t pass by each other like they used to. 

“Hey, buddy!” Hunk says, and Keith doesn’t read too hard into the frown that twitches at his lips. “You been doing okay?...Getting enough sleep?”

“Enough to survive,” Keith says, a little harsher than intended. Hunk brushes it off, but it’s not like he meant to sound mean. Everyone’s been getting on his case about this shit, like how he’s skipped meals sometimes and doesn’t sleep as much, and barely lets himself rest. It’s not his fault that he’s busy, and he’s not exactly too keen on just dropping all his hard work for a little bit of rest. In the long run, it’s more ideal for him to spend as much time as he can working hard to find Haggar– to him, at least. Keith doesn’t need anyone else telling him how to spend his time, because he knows what he’s doing and what he wants and why he does it. Sooner or later, he figures, they’d understand. Three months isn’t enough time to get used to his current lifestyle.

Hunk hands him two styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, masking his obvious concern with a poor smile and furrowed brows. Keith takes a long whiff, enjoys the notes of cinnamon wafting in his nose and Hunk speaks up. “Well, try to take care of yourself,” he says, and Keith waves goodbye with two fingers before heading back to Jeanine and Pidge.

She’s having an animated conversation with Matt about her favorite Disney princesses, and he’s greeted with the two of them (not that harshly) arguing over which was better: Mulan (Jeanine) or Rapunzel (Matt)?

“Mulan,” Keith says as he sets the cups down, trying not to wince as he sits down on the hard bench. His legs have suffered some serious shit in the past week; falling out of trucks, acting like the Blade and catapulting himself over walls and up trees, dropping from abnormal heights to join the fray. They hurt pretty bad, as of late, but it doesn’t deter him from the task at hand. Pidge shoots him an odd look when he grunts, as he sits on the bench. “I just think she’s cooler.”

Matt’s expression is aghast and completely betrayed, as Jeanine takes a sip of the slightly cooled hot chocolate (Hunk cooled hers down just a tad, because she’s scared of getting her tongue burnt). Her face lights up, taking sips of her drink as they continue their conversation. Pidge’s got a weird look on her face, like she’s trying to read into his very core and Keith shuffles in his seat. He pulls a weird face, and finally, she glances back down at her drink with a somber expression.

Keith doesn’t get it.

Night rolls by quicker than he wanted, and Keith makes it a point to tuck Jeanine into bed so she doesn’t feel so lonely. After a kiss to her forehead and tucking her soft plush dragon into her arms, he changes out from his jeans into a pair of pajama pants, and makes his way to the living room with his coat on.

Hunk, Pidge, Shiro and Matt are all gathered there, discussing something that probably isn’t camp related judging by their smiles and laughter, and Keith’s heart twists a little. Just for a second, a claw of anger tries to shove its way out his throat but he pushes it back down, just as angrily. He can’t get mad over a stupid thing like them _enjoying_ themselves. It’s not fair.

Shiro is the first to take notice of him, smiling brightly at him and gesturing towards an empty seat beside Pidge. The others greet him just as warmly, but Pidge’s eyes dart to his coat and her jaw clenches. She’s definitely bothered by something.

“You gonna join us tonight?” Hunk asks, all innocence and carefree, and those implications settle heavy in Keith’s stomach. It’s a question he hears a lot, every night in the past three months and admits he’s getting sick of the question. They know what he does, they know where he’s going, and it’s the only time he gets to see him without any disruptions. Maybe he feels bad, but Keith can’t just up and abandon him– not after everything he’s done to keep them all wrapped around each other, and safe.

“No, sorry,” Keith mumbles, and places his hands in his pockets. Smiles twitch and Shiro’s falls, concern etched on his face and he looks at Keith like he’s sneaking off to secretly reconvene with the Galra and plot his revenge against Voltron. It’s driving him nuts.

“You sure, Keith?” Shiro asks, and settles his palms into his lap. “We’ve got room.”

“I’m fine,” Keith bites, and tries to ignore that double meaning. How “fine” is he? Keith’s not too sure, himself. He pauses, thinking of something else to say so he doesn’t sound like such an ass and his thumbs play nervously against the seams of his coat. “Thanks, though.”

He doesn’t give them much of a chance to push it, because he’s already out the door when Pidge opens her mouth to speak. Closing the door shut and shivering under the cold night air, he shuffles to the lit-up building against the dark navy of the night sky. His legs ache, as he drags himself up the stairs to the currently unoccupied room, save for Slav who’s always given him room to talk. Keith missed him– he hadn’t seen him in the past week, because of how busy and exhausted he has been, not to mention sleep deprived. It makes Keith feel bad, sure, but he’s certain he’ll understand. He always does.

He knocks against the door, two soft raps on the white wood and the door swings open to reveal Slav. He looks exhausted, hair spindly and an absolute rat’s nest and like he hasn’t gotten a good rest in a while. Keith smiles sheepishly, and Slav steps around him to amble back to his room for a quick shower, and powernap.

“Take how long you need,” he grumbles, and tosses a pair of keys to the man. “Just close up afterwards.”

Keith nods, quietly and takes a few fleeting breaths before he makes his way into the temperature-appropriate, warmly lit room. It’s just as familiar as it was a week ago, and Keith finds a smile lifting on his features before his eyes meet the best part of his day. They’ve since moved Lance, as it’d gotten increasingly more difficult to keep him still against the worn leather straps, and pulled him upright to prevent any further injury in his position. The bitter cold had been a lucky break; Lance’s body was kept intact without any additional heat to bite into his uncooperative body, mainly due to Keith’s fears of Lance rotting away on the metal autopsy table. Now, he stands in front of Keith with his head slumped, low growls wheezing out of him. Keith knows by now that he’s not actually dying from whatever he’s being injected with; it’s just the cold weather, slowing down his brain and making the Cuban as legarthic as ever.

“Hi, Lance,” Keith whispers, shutting the door behind him and sauntering towards his boyfriend. Lance makes a half-hearted growl, fingers stretching in his direction in a feeble attempt to feed. Keith just flutters his fingers back, like they’re waving at each other from across the camp and sits cross-legged in front of him. “How are you doing today, baby?”

Lance growls, and a groan slips out as he strains weakly against his leathered restraints. Keith makes a note to remind the others to feed him, lest he starve and die the day he comes back. Keith picks the leather glove from his back pocket, pulling off his left glove and tugging on the leather one. He scoots just a tad closer, Lance’s fingernails inches from his face and lets his hand glide up against the wiggling digits. The pads of his fingers press against his palms, achingly hot against his fingers and squeezes their hands together. He’s so warm, after he turned.

“Everyone’s being weird around me,” Keith says, and meets the glazed over blues from above, staring down at him with drool pooling at his lip and low moans rumbling out of him. “They’re acting like I have no idea what I’m doing anymore. I’m perfectly fine– tired, I guess, but I’m fine. I haven’t been with you in three months, and they just make it seem like I’m not able to handle it. I’m looking for Haggar, and I’ve made some good headway– it’s only a matter of time before I find her. Besides, they’re still looking for me; maybe I’ll give myself up, give them the slip and get you back, Lance.”

Keith reaches to the plastic can of Lysol wipes, flipping Lance’s hand over to wipe the area of any debris, spit, blood, whatever bodily functions applicable. He runs the wipe along it tenderly, brushing his thumb over Lance’s knuckles and smiling up at him. He’s lost most of his interest in Keith, instead his head lolling back and probably locking up his limbs with how little he’s moved. When he’s managed to clean off the area as thoroughly as possible, after a few more precautions (steaming the area, rubbing alcohol, the works) until the area is squeaky clean. Under all the post infected grime, remnants of the warmth of his skin remain. Without any sun, or any real working bodily functions to make his skin all nice and pretty, he was just...gray. Dead-looking. Dead.

Keith rubs the area, trying to gain some of that color back with his own warmth before leaning forward, pressing the hand firmly in place and dusting his lips over it. Once he’s certain Lance won’t try clawing out his eyeballs, Keith presses a firmer, more loving kiss to the hand and skims his thumb against the kiss. It’s probably best for him to leave, now, because he’s been staring up at Lance for about half an hour.

“Okay,” he whispers, and Lance grunts. “I have to go now. I love you so much, Lance. Talk to you soon.”

With that, he walks backwards to the door, keeping his eyes trained on Lance and trying to ignore the squeeze of his heart when Lance stares back. He likes to think maybe somewhere, deep, deep down Lance is well and alive and trying his best to communicate that. As unlikely as it is, it brings a comfort to him, and he’s able to lock the doors easier. The cold sends a chill up his spine, and he tips his head forward to meet the door. Things hurt.

He’d been doing this ever since Shiro let him start seeing Lance again. At first, it was too hard to even look at him. He could barely deal with Lance’s glazed, milky blue eyes and the snapping of his teeth at the scent of something edible, and promptly puked all over Slav’s floor out of stress. The second time around, he didn’t puke, but kept a rather safe distance while he watched them work their magic. The more he visited, the less horrible he felt about the situation. Soon enough by his seventh or eighth time around, he’d converse with the Cuban as if Lance were able to comprehend what Keith would talk about. Admittedly, it may have not been the best for his already teetering mental state— his reliance on the mere existence of Lance grew more than he’d like to acknowledge. But it was enough for him, even if it was hard to look at him, sometimes. Keith needed this– he _needed_ it.

He drops the keys off at the desk beside Slav’s current living quarters, sending one last fleeting look at the closed door before heading back to the house. The cold floods his cheeks with a bitter red and he tucks in closer to the scarf and presses his palms into his nose. It does little to nothing, but he keeps them because it makes him feel better.

When he gets back, the others are still in a circle and discussing something that’s sparked a heated debate. He can vaguely hear Hunk’s vehement, adamant stance on pink Starbursts being the best flavor, and Matt completely disagreeing, and tries to sneak past them so he isn’t forced to deal with it.

He makes it. Maybe Shiro looks at him and they share eye contact before he retreats, maybe Pidge tells him “have a good night” before he’s in his bedroom, but Keith didn’t notice. He’s more interested in lying back in his bed and looking at the pinned maps on his walls, red yarn strung across the tiny blue-topped pins holding it all together. Keith sighs, curling his fingers into his stomach and turning over on his side, eyes slinking away from the wall and in the front of himself. Blank, soft ochre walls flood his vision in the warm flickering light of his candle, and he starts to let his mind wander a little more.

Blue is the first color he sees when he closes his eyes. He’s not asleep, but he’s had some violent, vivid daydreams in the past months. Dark blue, blue eyes start to form in the sea of black and they blink, eyelashes batting heavy against a pool of tanned skin. Lance’s face starts to form, and Keith finds himself imagining his boyfriend, soft smile dancing on his lips, pools of freckles covering his cheeks and chin and nose and everything. He’s so soft, so pretty and Keith wishes he could see that beautiful face again.

His hands start to fumble around the comforter until a familiar vinyl meets his fingers, and he opens his eyes to see the polaroids. The first is the nicest one Hunk had; it’s of Lance, taken by Hunk as he is leaned towards the stock of a rifle, and throws a glamorous smile over his shoulder. Teeth sparkling and skin warm and sun casting a shiny glow on his face, he’s absolutely dazzling. The second is just as great. It’s of him sitting at the dinner table, head thrown back in a boisterous laugh that Keith can hear ringing in his head. His mouth is full of rice and beans and Keith can just barely see Pidge’s shoulder next to him, only because of the weird cat-shaped birthmark on her arm. Lance looks joyful as can be, and Keith clutches the edges of the photo, hard. His eyes feel dry, but he wishes he could cry.

The final photo is his favorite, but it is also the hardest to look at. It’s a picture of him and Lance, curled up and lying on top of each other on the loveseat of the couch. It’s early enough in the day for the light to be natural, and judging from hickeys on his neck and the soft scratches against Lance’s neck, it’s probably the day after they’d had sex– and met Latex Zombie, of course. Lance’s smile is big and wide, arms wrapped around Keith’s waist as the latter lies on him. Keith’s got a stupid, goofy smile and his cheek is smooshed against Lance’s head and they’re both wearing the dumbest of their pajama pants. Keith’s are definitely Cars themed, Lance’s have tiny sharks over them, but they look so damn happy. God, he can barely remember why it was even taken; just that Hunk saw them, promptly went “Aww!” and shot the photo before either of them could protest. He was so smiley in the photo, that he’s certain he probably denied all day like the kind of guy he was.

Keith presses his lips against the polaroid, tucking it close to his chest as he tries to catch up on sleep. It’s not easily, and he’s certain that it’s well into the night when his eyes finally begin to flutter closed. The last thing he sees when before sleep takes him is dark, dark blue.

– 

Another week passes. Keith sort of feels like he’s being pulled apart at the seams, and finds it harder and harder to keep up with the motions. But he pushes himself, harder than he pushes the rest of the team– even goes so far as to dismiss them until they’re needed otherwise. He finds himself teaming up with Kolivan on quick missions, working himself half to death to avoid the festering thoughts in his head. He still visits Lance every day, and his visits begin to stretch deep into the hours of the night; their last session lasted until the sun broke into the sky and he was kicked out by Slav before passing out into one of the hospital rooms. Now it’s sometime mid-January and his limbs ache as per normal as he trudges from the trucks to his house. He’s covered in blood, he’s sticky and gross and probably needs to burn this shirt due to the zombie guts splattered on him. A few people offers consoling glances, but he just ignores them. Keith really, really wants a shower right about now.

Keith dredges up the stairs, blood squelching under his shoes and clothes stringing behind him as he steps into the shower. A quick glimpse in the mirror shows him, probably at his worst in a while. He’s gotten a total of roughly six hours of sleep in the past week, meager dinner plates throughout the day, and spends the better half of his mornings swinging a machete into the skulls of a few biters. Keith’s near delirious, surviving on what little sleep he gets and as much water as his body can take. Yet he keeps pushing; at this point, he’s not sure why. It feels hopeless.

He shakes his head of those thoughts and steps into the shower, lazily washing out the blood and oils in his hair. It’s definitely thinner, and while he’s lucky that he’s got hair about as thick as the hood of Pidge’s parka (courtesy of Shiro), it feels lighter. Warm droplets hit his face as he washes the soap out of his hair, turns the water off and just. Stands. Watches the water drip into the drain, and he’s not sure exactly how long he’s in there. Time passes like slugs, lately, and it’s harder to tell how long he’s been awake. Keith is tired.

A knocking at the door makes him jump, nearly slipping in the shower and cracking his skull open. Keith darts his eyes and calls out a tentative, “Yeah?”, stepping out the shower and drying himself off quickly.

“Come out to the living room when you finish,” Pidge replies, and Keith pulls a strange face. “Shiro’s calling a meeting.”

Keith freezes, mid-scrub of his damp hair when he hears that. Meetings usually means someone fucked up, and in which case, he’s not sure who– he hasn’t exactly been present to see if anyone was up to no good, so he’s in for a bit of a shock tonight. Group meetings aren’t called that often– or as the rest of them call, “family meetings”– and it’s been awhile since he’s last seen them all together. It’ll be a nice refresher of their faces, considering he’s spent the last week or so watching Kolivan’s back to make sure he isn’t shot, or anything.

Keith dries off his hair until it’s only dripping from the ends, and walks down to the room with the towel draped on his head. The others are sat in a circle, filling up the chairs– a quick headcount shows Shiro at the head, with Matt, Pidge, Hunk, Allura and Coran filling up the rest of the spots. His seat sits facing the rest of them, and he sits with the rest of them.

“Hey, guys,” he says, hiding a yawn with the back of his hand. “You guys alright?”

Shiro sighs, awkward and rubs at the back of his neck. He clears his throat, then chooses his next words carefully, eyes meeting Keith’s. “Hey, Keith. We need to talk.”

Keith pales, shrinking into his seat and pulling the towel off his head to wring between his hands. Shit. What’d he do this time? I mean, he can’t really think of anything that he’s done particularly wrong– maybe a bit of excessive force, but Galra were rather hard-headed. They could take a few hits. “About what?” he asks, looking up and gathering the towel in his fists.

“You, Keith,” Shiro begins, and glances at Pidge for assistance. “We’re worried about you, bud.”

“You...you look like shit, man,” Pidge says very matter-of-factly, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at him with a means to resolve the situation. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself, Keith. I’ve seen you leave at night and come back in the morning, dude–“

“I sleep,” Keith lies through his teeth, and avoids her gaze. “I sleep plenty fine.”

“Stop bullshitting me. You can’t lie to me, Keith,” Pidge retorts, and she’s leaned forward, an accusatory finger pointed in his direction. “You haven’t slept, or eaten, and you’re out there fighting your ass off like it’s a job. Why are you doing this?”

“I have to. You know that, Pidge– I can’t just stop now. I’m getting close.”

“You can’t work if you collapse on the job,” Shiro points out, and jerks his head towards the door. “You’re exhausted, Keith. You came in putting blood and throwing all your dirty clothes on the floor– we had to clean up after you, ‘cause Kolivan told us you’ve been fighting biters all day. You know better than to just leave contaminated clothes around, and you definitely know this isn’t healthy. You need to rest for a while, you just can’t push yourself like this.” 

“I’m not just gonna give up when I’m already at it, guys,” Keith pleads, and runs a hand through his hair, nervous. “Haggar is right under my nose! Soon enough, we’ll be able to get him and get Lance back, too!”

“We all want Lance back,” Hunk says gently, placating Pidge with a steady hand on her shoulder. He’s always been the voice of reason. “You know he wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself like this, Keith. He wants better for you.”

“You don’t know that,” Keith spits, curling in on himself and looking at him with a little more hostility than intended. “Lance wants to come back, I know he does–”

“That’s not fair, Keith,” Shiro interrupts, “You can’t treat Hunk like that, because you’re upset about this situation. You’re wrecking yourself like this, and you need to calm down, rest, and think of your next move. You’re not in your right mind, and you’ve just been getting worse in the past months.”

“I can take care of myself. Hunk, I’m sorry, really, I just– it feels like I’m the only one trying my best to find him! I’ve gotten some really good leads, but every time I go after them, word gets out and none of you think it’s a good idea, and no one’s allowed on solo missions until we’re certain it’s safe. So why are you just– not letting me go? I have to help him. I have to.”

Allura grimaces, and the rest of them sink their heads low to their laps. Keith’s heart starts to race a little faster than he’d like, but all of them are so quiet. Keith’s learned to hate the quiet, especially when he knows there’s people around– it shouldn’t be so quiet. “What– what? Guys, seriously.”

“We’re,” Allura stops, trails off, scrubs at her face. She looks worse for wear, eyes reddened and sunken in like she hasn’t slept in weeks. He can relate. “We’re beginning to think...this is useless.”

“What?”

“It’s very, very difficult right now,” Coran says, and scratches at his mustache. Keith feels a dread pool in his stomach. “Our resources are depleting, and it’s harder to go on runs for medical things– we don’t know how much longer we can take this.”

“If it’s resources, I-I can go on runs,” Keith stutters out, and the towel is clenched harder in his hands. “What– what’s going on, guys?”

“I’m afraid,” Allura says, and wipes at her eyes. “It’s becoming useless to try and save Lance.”

Keith stops. His head starts pounding, and everyone keeps talking– but for once, he wants them to just _shut up._ Stop acting like they’ve given up on Lance, because he promised– Shiro promised, they all told him on the brink of his death that they would save him, and now they were just turning their backs on him. A part of him, deep, deep down that’s shrouded in anger and in-the-moment hatred and burning black coil sinking into his heart and tearing it apart from the inside out, knows they have a point. They’ve used up so much of their time, and did as much as they could to try and help but it’s proved fruitless. Keith, everything else about his is vehement in his belief that Lance would be okay. Lance had to be okay– he asked them to, in his final moments he asked them to save him, and Keith’s mouth runs dry.

He can’t just give up on him. Keith can’t break that promise he’s kept so close to him; all those nights spent curled up in Lance’s sheets, wrapped into the olive green of his old jacket and kissing those pictures every night, hoping and wishing to whatever was out there to bring his baby back. Bring Lance back– bring him home. 

He wasn’t just going to let him go, like he let his mother go. Not again.

“You’re wrong,” Keith spits, hoarse, and stands up so abruptly that his chair clatters to the floor. “You’re– you’re wrong. He’s not gone, I’ll turn every fucking stone before I call it quits, dammit! Whatever you need, whatever you want, I will get it– but I _will not_ turn my back on him like that. Lance never wanted to die– Lance spent so much time just trying to, to help me and help us all, and I will not rest until I fucking give him tenfold what he gave me. So you– don’t– don’t tell me. Don’t tell me we’re giving up on him, please, I just,” Keith’s crying. He hasn’t done that in a while. “I won’t lose him, even if it kills me.”

“Keith…” Shiro trails off, trying to find any words, but Keith doesn’t let him.

“I’m going to my room,” he mutters, dropping the towel in the chair and turning back to the safety of his room. He curls into everything he has of Lance, aggressive scrubs at his face and closes his eyes, red-rimmed and burning and painful. 

Keith leaves behind the towel, tattered from the biting of his nails and the pulling of his fingers and thinks, for a moment, that it’s enough to show the worst of it. He’s being torn apart, by this.

How much longer he can take it, he doesn’t know.

– 

Keith doesn’t leave his room much, after that. Of course, he leaves whenever the other camp moms are unable to calm Jeanine down, and take her to eat and get snacks and helps her learn how to use a knife because she’s not at fault here, but otherwise, he’s mostly holed up in his room. The little times he does come out to eat, he only exchanges simple, tired hellos and goodbyes. He still visits Lance, because he knows if he stops going, they might do something. Keith doesn’t want that.

He spends his times in different corners of his room. He finds he prefers being slumped against the closet, thumbing through his photos of Lance and carefully slicing off loose threads of his clothing, ripping apart crummy old blankets. Sometimes Rover comes with his tiny little happy dog self, bumbling in his lap and Keith almost cries because he is so soft, so warm. Otherwise, he thinks.

Keith thinks a lot. Keith thinks about space and airplanes and Jay Brannan and latex and the color blue, and thinks about Lotor and gets angry and throws his frustrations out on the living room table. Shiro has replaced it twice now. He finds himself not caring more and more, going on less missions and more runs and trying to just throw himself out there like a chew toy. He thinks about Lance and how much he misses him, really really misses him, letting his turmoil of emotions wrap around his very being like a snake and wallows in self-pity, and he realizes quickly enough he’s experiencing that stage he never got to feel before he started trying to ruin himself saving Lance.

One time, he leaves camp. Doesn’t tell anyone except Shay, who’s adamant on keeping Lance alive until they find a solution and stays with him after hours talking about what they might try next, and he appreciates that. Keith takes up the banged up blue Chevrolet Silverado they picked off at a deserted car auction; Lance’s favorite. He takes the car, and drives out a lot farther than he intended. He’s some forty minutes out from home, and pulls over the side of the road on a chilly March morning, and yells.

Starts screaming his lungs out, speakers blaring out Beyonce’s _Irreplaceable_ and Cat Power’s cover of _Sea of Love_ and Death Cab for Cutie’s _I Will Follow You Into the Dark_ like it’s some kind of sick fucking irony. He’s not even crying, just yelling and screaming until he’s lost his voice and switches from his yelling to the horn. He starts honking, slamming down on the horn and coughing up a storm because his throat throbs something fierce, and tries to ignore how Ben Gibbard sings _if there’s no one beside you, when your soul embarks, then I will follow you into the dark_ because it so viciously reminds him of Lance’s own voice. Singing Lady Gaga at the top of his lungs and serenading Keith and mumbling out the lyrics to _Total Eclipse of the Heart_ in the dead of the night.

When biters start to surround the car, sprinting towards him like a pack of angry wolves is when he hightails it out of there, hands gripping the wheel knuckles white until he gets home. Keith parks the car as shittily as he can because he’s that mad, chucking the keys at the guard on duty and rushing back to the house so no one can see the bruises on his hands. He hit the horn hard.

As the days pass, and it goes from January to February to ends of March, Keith finds himself..empty. Gone, like he’s lost a big part of himself that let him open his soul up like a treasure chest for the world. He sits at the dinner table, staring into the spaces between the kitchen tiles and counts the striations of the wood grain far too many times for his head to comprehend. He starts imagining things, because Keith it almost certain a degree of delirium has set in from his incessant lucid dreams in the little time he does sleep, and he sees a lot of Lance. Lance cleaning his sniper, Lance getting some breakfast, Lance combing his fingers through the black tresses of Keith’s locks. Sometimes he sees his mom, offering ambiguous advice like she always did and kissing his forehead goodnight, and once, he sees his dad. His dad asks him to come home, bring himself back to earth and forget this mess. Let go.

He can’t.

On the evening of April 3rd, as the sun begins to sink over the horizons and it’s high time he sees his boyfriend, his feet lead him elsewhere. Like he’s postponing something, an itch in his throat that hurts to try to acknowledge. He visits Pidge in her room, who’s having a conversation with Matt about an on-site power plants and coughs his throat, awkward. Why’s he feeling so...bad. 

“Um,” he says, and the two of them look up with immediate interest. Lately, they hang onto every word he says like they’re audiologists and he is the subject. Normally, he doesn’t mind– sometimes, like this time, it feels like they’re scrutinizing him from the inside out. “I’m gonna…go see Lance.”

“Oh,” Pidge says, and nods. Offers a tiny smile. “Okay. Don’t stay out so late.”

“Right.” He leaves, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket and plods towards Slav’s building, bright light sparking from the only room that’s ever lit, nowadays. Slav’s drawn the curtains, because it’s a little dimmed, yet for some reason. He slows down as he approaches the floor, hand on the railing and looking from the door, to the staircase, to the door.

He keeps going up. His feet pull him up each floor, passing numbers like floor sixteen, seventeen, eighteen a blur of black font and unimportance. Keith’s sort of blanking right now, letting his brain do the work as he takes each step one at a time, careful, slow, deliberate.

He reaches the top. A door that reads “ROOFTOP ACCESS” scours his eyes, red and foreboding and he tests the door. It opens with no qualms, and he takes a glance around at the roof, trying to find something of importance. There’s really nothing that screams to him as dangerous, bad, just– he feels a type of closure. A neutral closure, and he finally steps through the door frame.

It’s nice. You can see the remnants of Salt Lake City, here, campfires flickering from the ground and smoke climbing high into the burnt oranges, violets of the sky. Keith feels the need to take off his shoes, so he does, lets gravel get between his toes and feels the earth sinking around him and encasing him like a silk blanket. It’s comforting, the way the world revolves underneath him, here. He feels stuck, in comparison. Keith is stuck in molasses, quick sand preventing any further movement and just watching him until he sinks. The world keeps going, yet he does not. Lance does not. His feet tread closer, closer to the edge and he looks out with baited breath. 

The ledge is right there. Beige in color and dirtied with dust and plants and dirt, but it is there, and it feels level on his feet when they’ve placed themselves on. He could just– jump. Jump off, act like nothing is wrong, and be with Lance, and his mom. Even if it’s only the tiniest fraction of him that wants to leap off and never think about those consequences, it scares him enough to want to step off. He’s stuck, though.

“Hey, Keith?” Pidge’s gentle voice airs out, and he registers the creaking of the big rooftop door as gravel crunches under her fuzzy boots. Keith toys at the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah, Pidge?”

“Can we talk, dude?”

Keith huffs out a laugh. His toes inch a little further away from the edge, and he nods in response. “Yeah, okay.”

“Can you step off the ledge first, please?”

Keith nods. “Okay.” He steps off.

Pidge tugs him further away until he’s swept up in her little arms, squeezing tight around his middle and burrowing her face into his chest. She’s a little taller, Keith thinks briefly, then starts to feel horrible horrible bad feelings twist in his stomach. God, Jesus– it’s her fucking birthday today. It’s her birthday, and here she finds him on the edge of a tall-ass building with too much on his mind and too many emotions and not enough words for them, and no wonder she’s started to cry a little bit.

He sits her down, cradling her shaking form in his arms and pressing a kiss to her forehead, rocking her until she’s calmed down. They’re far away from the ledge, but it feels too– too _there,_ and hates that they have to look at it. Pidge looks up and strokes his hair, and clambers out of his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and wipes her tears. “Sorry, I just– I got worried. You’ve been out here for a while. Like, maybe a couple hours. Matt and I just got nervous, ‘cause you never say anything anymore and suddenly you tell us what you’re doing so I– yeah. I’m here.”

“Happy birthday, Katie,” Keith fumbles out, and grips her hand tight. The human contact warms his touch-starved, affection drained heart. He needed this. “I lost track of time. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” she hisses, and together, they watch the sun go down. They’re there for a while longer, and their hands are intertwined and he thinks back to all those months they spent alone. How often she’d scramble behind him out of fear of a rat, or cover him with some impressive knife-wielding, or how much he’s seen those pretty brown locks go from a stubby pixie cut to the waves brushing past her shoulders. It’s pulled up right now in a messy, low bun, and Keith decides to crack a joke– he hasn’t done this one, for a while.

He pulls his growing hair into the fat blue scrunchie in his pocket, winding it tight around his hair and brandishing it for her eyes to see. “Look,” he begins, and points to the bun. “I’m you.”

She shoves him, and he topples over into the grovel as a boisterous laugh escapes him and he rolls over, giggles leaving. She joins him soon after, the two of them wheezing over the stupid stupid joke he remembers last saying in Pomona, and it makes his heart a little happier. He’s laughing too hard, really, but he’s a little delirious and a little exhausted so it’s okay.

They calm down, eventually, peering out into the navy blues of the sky on their backs and letting a blanket drape over them. Pidge points out constellations and talks about planets and blushes when she realizes she’s been rambling. Keith calls her the cutest little sister _ever._ Pidge punches him.

“We never made it to Canada,” Pidge says, when silence has fallen over them and words fail to bring more life into the space conversation. Keith remembers that promise he made, and laughs about it now– what they had now, was so much safer, better for her. She had Matt, and he fulfilled his promise to keep her safe– for him. For Matt. “You ever think about what could’ve happened if we made it? Or like, just– kept going?”

Keith shivers, thinking back on his time with Lotor and how he’d crawled deep into his brain and now he’s off rehabilitating with the Blade. It’s weird, to think that they’re giving Lotor and his lady generals a second chance; Keith still hates his guts and punches him everytime he sees him, of course, and snips off his hair like the furious boy he is. It isn’t enough to quench his desire to beat Lotor into the ground, but he doesn’t want to be like them; he’s sort of learned Lotor never wanted to be like this, either. Months in a shed with your father’s dead general can do that to you. So he lets Lotor try to redeem himself a little bit, or at least find his way on his own, because if he fucks up, Keith is the first in line to get a stab at him. Literally.

Keith refocuses: Canada. Right. “I don’t like thinking about that,” he admits, and wrings his hands together. “Lotor did some pretty shitty stuff to us, back in Logan. It was some rough shit, Pidge– I don’t think I could..handle it, really. Not at all.”

“Does it scare you?”

“What, Canada?”

“No, just– thinking about Logan.”

“Yeah.” Keith breathes. “Yeah, it does.”

He pauses. Squeezes her hand. “I wasn’t going to do it, okay?”

“...okay, Keith.”

They leave it at that. Pidge gets up eventually, citing the need for a good night’s sleep and invites Keith to come back with her. Keith declines, because he needs to go see Lance, and she disappears from his line of vision. It’s hard to get up, but he does, eyes bleary and brain a little scattered. He talked a lot today, and now he just wants some Lance time. Keith makes his merry way to Lance’s room, smiling a little bit because as tired as that conversation made him, it made him happy.

When he walks in, Keith is speechless. His brain sort of malfunctions, a little, as he takes in the sight before him. Upright in his restraints, Lance is no longer growling, and he’s got a healthy glow of tan on his skin. He looks– god, he looks so fucking wonderful and breathtaking, and jesus, he looks _alive._ He doesn’t really say anything though, is just slumped over and weirdly quiet but Keith doesn’t care, because he’s fucking ecstatic.

“Lance!” He cries, leaping towards him and practically melting into a puddle of tears as he throws his arms around Lance. His face is tucked into his shoulders and he’s mostly on the left side, but the hug is perfect the way it is and he burrows further into the collar of his shirt. He’s warm. His arm hurts a little weird, but that’s okay.

His smile is so wide and happy that Keith forgets all of those negative emotions, all the exhaustion spiralling in his head and just focuses on the sight before him. Lance, Lance, Lance! It’s him, he’s really okay and he’s alive and well and ohh fuck, why’s his arm hurting so bad? Ow, it was like someone was biting him– 

he stops.

Keith blinks his eyes curiously at his boyfriend, only it really isn’t Lance anymore. He’s got his teeth wrapped around Keith’s arm, trying to bite off a chunk with what little strength he’s got during these winter months, and the train of thought comes slamming into the side of his skull. He’s exhausted, he’s kept talking about this all these months when he’s reached a state of delirium where he forgets where he is because he sleeps so little and works so hard, and how he sees things like his mom and his dad and Lance, too, who’s standing there with as much zombie in him as can be, and finally, Keith reacts. He rips his arm away with a shocked squeak, glancing at his bleeding arm with as much horror as he’s ever felt. It burns red hot against him, and the indentations from his canines make a clear mark, and tell him, yes Keith you were bitten by your own boyfriend. Keith instantly regrets thinking that, and just, backs away slow and steady.

He could tell the others. He could have a whole spiel about how he’s okay with dying, how it’s fine if they kill him because he doesn’t want them to see him like this. Have a heartfelt, sentimental session where he apologises for being such an insensitive asshole and never giving them the time of day as of late, and tell them how horrible he feels for all the grief he’s caused in the past five, nearly six months, and how life sort of sucks for all of them and it’s funny how things work out. Then he’ll see Lance.

Keith could also run, hide away somewhere and pretend it never happened, curl up with a bottle of water and let the infection run its course. Keith decides yeah, that’s the way he wants to go. He doesn’t want Shiro hurting, and decides it’s the best way– for him to just go, silent and quiet like he always has.

He grabs a bottle of water and a white sheet from one of the supply closets, wrapping it around himself like a ghost, and sits inside of a dark room. There, his head starts to swirl and churn and he wonders if Lance felt like this. Keith slumps against the corner furthest from the door, giving the others enough time to kill him lest they find his body after he’s turned. He tucks himself in a ball, taking gingerly sips from his water as he waits for the fever to set in. He’s sleepy. Maybe it’s okay to just rest, now.

When he dreams, it’s more mellow. Muted, like he’s living it through a movie and he feels like maybe, this is what comes after life for him. Sometimes his dreams get a little too vivid, and it scares him to see what his brain conjures up. Lance is in his vision, sitting on a sandy beach as the sun beats down on his skin and the content smile on his face tilts in his direction. He sits up, beckoning the boy over and Keith joins him fast, sweeping the two of them into a kiss. Keith pushes them until he’s hovering over Lance, and presses his lips hard against Lance’s. They kiss with a passion that Keith has missed so dearly, fingers curled into each other’s hair as Lance’s hand dances on his hip.

“Hi, Keith,” he murmurs against his lips, in that silky smooth flirty voice thing he does whenever he sees Keith. The Korean melts, slumping against his chest and letting his boyfriend pull his locks back into a ponytail. His fingers feather light across Lance’s clavicle, up to his lips until they rest on the apples of his smiling cheeks.

“Hi, _Lancey Lance,”_ He teases, earning a knock of knuckles against his chin. He missed this, way, way too much. It almost feels unreal.

Lance pulls him tight to his chest, combing through Keith’s bangs and blowing warm air against his neck. Keith feels so content, like his heart has soared off and blessed the earth with the joy he always felt around Lance. Not like he didn’t feel happy around the others, he just– Lance. Lance is so good, and loves him just as much as Keith loves him and it brings a new dimension into his life. He’s dated, but never like Lance. No one would be like him.

He takes Lance’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. The water brushes at the heels of their feet and Lance shrieks, “Shit, that’s cold!” before scrambling back with Keith in tow. It drags a laugh out of him, as he follows him and climbs right on his lap, a mischievous smile on his face. “Heya, handsome,” Keith lilts, palms outstretched on the man’s chiseled abs. Damn, he missed this.

“Hiya to yourself!” Lance quips, and pats Keith’s thighs. “I mean, damn! You are a real hottie, cowboy. You single?”

“Nah,” Keith says, and leans in as close as he can without kissing. “I’m in a pretty good relationship, right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lance purrs, against his lips and Keith shivers. He really, _really_ missed this. “Is he gonna be mad if I kiss you right now, baby?”

“Probably.”

Lance snorts, and surges forward, teeth clacking as they kiss with a level of ferocity Keith finds so warmingly familiar. The sand presses hot against his back and he kisses back, tongue slipping past the velvet-soft lips of his boyfriend and they sit there, making out. It’s every bit of heavenly Keith would associate with death, and he feels happy. He hopes he doesn’t attack Lance, when his body comes back. 

He kind of hears something, when Lance starts to palm against his groin and Keith pulls away with a confused glare. he thinks Lance is bullshitting him, so when he looks to the source of the noise, and rejoins his gaze with Lance, it’s unnerving that he’s gone. Vanished.

“Lance?” he croaks, and his voice sounds so hoarse and scratchy and raspy. Keith furrows his brows tight, trying to blink himself into reality when he meets the dingy walls of the hospital room. Fuck, he’s not– he got all of that loveliness of that dream, and he’s not even dead yet. He just feels sweaty, like the walls are closing in on him and turns his head to try to look for that noise again.

Oh. Shiro.

“Keith!” Shiro cries, rushing forward and squeezing him tight into a hug, and Keith can feel his fingers shake against his back. “Oh, god, Jesus, Keith! We’ve been looking for you everywhere, and I just– when Pidge told me she couldn’t find you after she left you on the rooftop, and she was all in hysterics, and we thought, I thought– oh, fuck, god! Jesus, are you okay? Here, let me go get Allura– how long have you been in here?”

“Um, since I last saw Lance,” he manages out, and lets Shiro drag him to the room where the others are waiting. Pidge is quick to hug him, Hunk following close as he’s wrapped in their hug with long sighs of relief. He’s only been gone for like, thirty minutes, and they’re acting like he’s already dead. 

What triggers the following chaos is pretty unclear to him. Maybe it’s Shiro pointing out the injury to Allura or the way Pidge’s eyes widen in realization, but it dawns on them that he’s been bit. It’s kind of weird, the way the wound seems to have stopped bleeding and just...sits there, unlike Lance’s, whose bite was throbbing like a fast pumping heartbeat. 

“Keith,” Allura begins slowly, and the rest of them only blare complete shock and horror. Allura is– stunned, but not shocked. There’s a difference. “Keith, when were you...bitten?”

He wrings his hands out, trying to avoid their gazes as he recounts the story as best as he can. Deciding it may not be best for him to mention the whole delirium thing for Shiro’s sake, he shortens it to, “I was dumb and got bitten. I’m fine.”

“Keith,” Allura stops him, and takes a wipe, cleaning at the edges of the wound. Her eyes widen. She doesn’t give him any more words, just sprinting towards the back rooms and flicking through something on a computer– probably not necessary for wifi, but who knows. Maybe Keith could’ve posted something on his stupid Facebook wall months into an apocalypse. Neat.

The gasp that pulls out of her is full of wonder, surprise, and shock all at once– she comes running back with the other scientists in tow, all discussing madly about weird mumbo-jumbo he doesn’t get until Slav shoves him into a chair, prying his forearm over and stabbing a needle in the area as soon as it’s cleaned. Shiro tries to protest something, but Shay shuts him up with a newspaper, and a “Shh!” before continuing to prep a table. Great, now he’s a lab monkey sooner than Lance became one.

“What’s going on?” Keith asks, when Slav runs under a microscope and peers into it for way longer than should be necessary. Allura and Shay are discussing things about implications and failed fungi and white blood cells and Keith is still very confused, but keeps pressing the question. “Guys, seriously, I’m– god, what’s going on?!”

Allura forces a cotton swab into his mouth, thoroughly collecting his spit before coming out with a tray full of weird samples and dipping the cotton swab in the water. They’ve stopped talking, in complete work mode even though something seems wrong, that Keith wishes he would’ve said something sooner. But enough is enough, really, and he needs to know what the hell is happening.

“Allura– Allura!” he shouts, and it breaks her away from her work for the briefest rest periods, before furrowing her brows and indicating her continue. “What the hell is going on?”

“Keith, do you have any idea why the Galra are after you?” Allura asks, turning over the bite mark on his arm. Yeah, he gets it, he was fucking bitten. No need to rub it in. No, he still doesn’t get why the Galra hate his guts and want to kill him– it’s not a good vibe, and he’s sick of trying to figure it out. Mostly.

“Not a clue.”

Slav gasps, prompting the Voltron leader and surgeon to run over, crowded around whatever weird petri dish samples he was showing them before they too, start discussing in mad pace over the contents of whatever the fuck was in the infected blood. Allura comes around, setting the dishes on the table in front of him and pointing at them with a very forceful finger.

“Do you see this, Keith?”

It’s just blood. Two dark blood petri dishes, sitting in front of them with a foreboding sense. Keith shakes his head, deciding this is a very shitty goodbye and Allura jabs the dishes again. 

“There is no difference between this blood,” she says, holding up a petri dish labeled K, and points her finger at it. She shakes her head, “no, no,” and Keith is ready to lay down some of his sickest Galra-butt-kickin’ to get them to pick up the pace. Finally, she shows the other dish. “And this blood, Keith. Are you following?”

“Yeah, just– what?”

“Keith!” Allura calls, exasperated beyond belief. “These two samples are both samples from in-betweens of you during your time here, and just now. Do you notice something about them?”

“They, uh, look the same? Look, Allura–”

“That’s right! Jesus, and, think about it! This blood,” she points at the left, “should be _infected!”_

Oh, okay. Oh.

Oh.

Ohhhh. Oh my fucking god. Oh god, jesus, the Galra really _did_ want him for something else, and that’s why he hasn’t felt really that shitty at all in the past few hours, and oh my god what is happening.

“You’ve been missing for three days,” Shiro quips, obviously concerned and confused. “What’s going on, guys?”

So much was going on, he wasn’t sure if he could continue talking as panic, and a strange relief floods his system. It makes sense– it makes _sense._ It's been days since he was bit, and yet he's still up and kickin' it like nothing ever happened, because that's what it feels like, and Keith feels everything click into place, then.

“Keith,” Allura says, disbelief etched in her face as she takes a glance at the cotton swab in a glass tube. It resembles the color of the other samples in the tray, and Keith tries not to choke on his own spit. “Keith is– he’s–“

Allura recollects herself. Downs a long, long swig of water.

“Keith is immune.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE  
> issue solved! if you're curious, it was a poll about the fate of terry. "yes to terry" was what most people ended up telling me, so i went ahead and did it even if some people didn't want it but didn't get a chance to say so. sorry! pidge needs a friend.
> 
> EDIT  
> 8/10/2017  
> again,  
>  **" **there has been changes made in previous chapters that will only slightly affect stuff. i decided to bring back terry, because i love his little dorky heart too much and when i asked, a lot of you did too!  
> ****  
>   
>   
>  i tried linking to that specific new part in the fic, but ao3's html is very limited and i can't figure out a way to get it to properly jump. so, [here's the updated chapter link](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10778139/chapters/26004765) and if you are on chrome, you can click on the tab where you find your history/settings, and click "find in page". type "Sometime during" and you should jump straight to it!  
> if you do not have chrome, just scroll until you get past the part about matt and the clockwork orange."  
> thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> UHH 10K  
> also HMM WHAT DOES THIS MEAN......................  
> the end date for this is APRIL 6TH of the next year. six months have passed since lance's turning.  
> three more left, baby.


	18. ...and back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE PLEASE READ THE END NOTES!!!**

Truth be told, Keith didn’t realize making a cure would include getting a hole drilled in his skull so they could scrape out some of his gross brain tissue, which would also entail getting an MRI scan of his head, meaning he’d literally be knocked out for the better half of the day. Also, he needed to go retrieve some shit from a place he hoped he’d never come back to. So, cool.

See, he only figured out they were going to perform a biopsy when Allura took a break from rambling about proper sampling and abnormalities in the DNA that showed, yeah, he technically _was_ infected but it showed no symptoms, and a buttload of food later because he hadn’t eaten or drank water in three days, does she finally sit down and explain the situation to him. Also, Shiro’s stern reprimand which earns a flick to the forehead, then he gets the details.

“I have been notified that I should probably explain to you what we’re going to need to do in order to, if all goes well, reverse engineer a vaccine.”

“Yeah, probably,” Keith mumbles, scarfing down his second tin of peaches. “Thank you.”

Allura shrugs, opening up a notebook she’d been periodically scrabbling in with the other two who are taking a quick lunch break before diving back into work. Keith sits patiently, absently thumbing at the scar on his clavicle and taking glances at Lance, who’s been further quarantined in the room that holds most of the biohazardous material. Keith _should_ be offended that they’ve stuck his boyfriend in with the rest of the radioactive waste, but he isn’t sure how keen he is about moving Lance completely out of the room; that room is the best bet so he can keep an eye on him. Finally, Allura gathers her thoughts and Keith settles in his seat, for the long medical spiel that he hopes she’ll dumb down for him. He’s smart, but he’s not medical smart– at least not in the way the three geniuses (and Shiro) in the room were.

“Let me begin by saying that I have absolutely no idea how your body has developed an immunity,” Allura prefaces, crossing her arms over her chest and sighing. “Any and all blood and saliva samples we’ve run through from you appear normal, nothing indicated a certain strain in those samples that you would be immune. At this point, I’m going to need to MRI your brain and perhaps take a sample, but details, details! Now, when your body reacted against the virus, as far as we know, any bacteria was killed off almost immediately, which is most definitely not something we’ve yet to see– the only traces that linger are in that bite in your arm, and that’s unheard of! The virus is extremely volatile, which is why it’s able to kill and reanimate in mere hours, yet you’re alive, three days later!”

Keith strokes his thumb against his scar, unsure of what to say and still a little confused. “I’m sort of following, but I think I’d get it a lot more if you explained what the virus exactly is. I never got it.”

“Ah.” Allura flips through her notebook again, nodding when Shay tells her that the other two are gonna get to rescanning his DNA on the computers (Keith still has absolutely no idea who got those up and running, but he suspects it’s Pidge) and finally opening to a page. It’s a long, long dissertation on the disease, with a bunch of little tables and arrows that Keith doesn’t care too much for. Allura clears her throat. “The virus, or as Slav has dubbed it, Kalinago, acts as a parasite-based infection. Back when the outbreak first occurred, most of us in Los Angeles were the first to get controlled samples from those infected who were detained or killed– I’ve mentioned that we had made little to no leeway with what we had, and that was true. Our department had barely devised that Kalinago had derived from a parasite carrying the disease before we were overrun, and from there I was able to study how this affected those who were infected. From what we’ve gathered here and with Lance, MRI scans showed us that Kalinago works like most other parasites, but far more deadly. Once the host is killed by the high fever the disease carries, Kalinago treats the host as a mere vessel and puts it in a position to simply survive– eat, defecate, repeat. Whatever it takes to keep the body functioning so the virus can thrive. In your case, we’ve only seen that it was killed off by any antibodies in your system, but I haven’t the faintest clue as to how, or why you have the immunity.”

Keith mulls it over, letting Allura get back to work for the time being while he tries to think about it. It’s most likely got to do with his whole Galra situation; he wouldn’t put it past them to do immunize him during the time with Lotor, but that raises a further question. Haggar hadn’t even arrived until the final legs of the Logan operation, and as far as he knew, most of what he was injected with was hallucinatory drugs. Most of the notes were kept in camp, and he had no idea where they kept–

oh.

“Shit,” Keith spits, setting his plate on the ground and scrubbing his face. Allura looks at him curiously, as he stands and shakes off the annoyance piling on his shoulders. The only way he’d get some real answers is if he got whatever Haggar had put her hands on, and he’d long since forgotten where things were sorted around in Logan. The one person who did know, however, is the very person who brought him there in the first place. “I may or may not puke.”

“If you’re going to, put it in a bucket so I can draw samples!” Slav calls, and Keith’s urge to vomit dissipates. Ew.

“What’s wrong?” Shay inquires, walking over with a sympathetic look on her face. “Is it your arm? I can get you some painkillers– unless you feel like you’re…?”

“No, no,” Keith reassures, tugging at the bandages wrapped on his arm and sighing heavy. He crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his eyes away from the others, then to Lance who looks just as great as ever. “It’s just...the only one who’d know why I’m like this, and would have more information on it– especially considering she tried and failed to create those freaky super zombies, would be Haggar. She probably kept them in Logan.”

Allura’s expression lights up, backing away from the computers and towards him. “That’s great! We can get a team out there to retrieve the information, all we need is the relative area where she would’ve kept them, and we can get to work on the rest of what’s necessary!”

“That’s the problem,” Keith continues, “I have no idea where any of that is. Haggar wasn’t the one who kept away the files and shit, but...well, _he_ knew.”

Allura grimaces, and the four of them exchange nervous glances. Shiro breaks the silence when he snorts awake, falling out of his chair with a horrified screech as his forehead hits the white tile. He doesn’t...scream, he sort of squawks and it breaks the tension in the room. Slav doubles over in a fit of laughter, something Keith has literally _never_ seen him do, and Shay starts letting out these bells of giggles that make his gay heart melt. Allura doesn’t seem to register the situation at first, both her and Keith staring at Shiro dumbly before they realize, yes, he snorted, honked, and fell on the floor in a matter of seconds. Allura lets out a heart laugh, clutching her stomach and Keith joins her with an ugly guffaw and they’re all laughing about Shiro’s misfortune, and it’s a good time, enough to forget who they’d be forced to ask for help. 

Of course, all good things come to an end and they refocus. Keith and Shiro are both let off, making sure to keep an eye on Keith in case of an extremely delayed infection— “It’s not likely, but just in case,”— and the two of them set out to the nearby Blade camps. They’re greeted warmly by the other Blades, familiar enough with the rest of them not to have to sweep them. Keith’s grateful, because he’s not sure if he wants one of them to see he’s been infected before he can explain the situation.

They’re directed to Kolivan quickly, who’s going over a debriefing about bandits in the upper east when he brings his attention to the two. The look on Shiro’s face is a mix of annoyance and a sinking feeling of a grave situation, and Kolivan quickly excuses the others– save for Ulaz and Thace, who would’ve gotten the low-down, anyways.

“Keith, Shiro,” Kolivan greets, leaning back on the map-littered table and crossing his arms over his chest. Ulaz and Thace stand off to the side, fresh wounds scattered on their arms and in a hushed, seemingly worried conversation. It warms up Keith’s heart, knowing it’s probably about the well-being of each other; the two of them had “married” about two months after Lotor’s capture– Kolivan declared the two of them husbands in a violent stand-off between a herd and a tiny ground group of Blades– and had been stuck at the hip since. That’s only inches from Keith’s grasp; he intends to have that bond, one way or another.

“We’ve got some pretty big news, Kolivan,” Shiro begins, beckoning Keith forward and slowly unravelling the bandage on his arm. The cleaned bite is quickly revealed, and Keith can see the three of them tense up at the sight. Even if it’s cleaned off and aged, the indents are obviously human and would give anyone the creeps. Shiro shakes his head, fast, and jabs a finger in the direction of the bite. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Is that a bite?” Thace clarifies, eyes wide as he scans his eyes over the bite. He looks in shock, like the site itself is completely unbelievable– which, Keith knows it is. He’s always so careful, especially after Lance that it’d be borderline impossible that he was bit; yet, here he is. 

“Yeah, it is,” Keith says, rather matter-of-factly. He’s hoping they catch on to something off in the air about his tone, his demeanor, and he’s lucky they do; Ulaz raises a brow at the statement, and Keith continues. “It’s a bite, but it’s three days old– almost four. If it stays like this for a while longer, and Allura gets her hand on some things she needs, then it’s safe to say I’m immune to this whole shit.”

Kolivan sucks in a breath, glancing at the bite and to Shiro, then to Keith. “You’re positive?”

“Positive.”

“Then what do you need?”

Keith sighs, re-wrapping the bandage and scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. The question itself is strange, because why would he ever associate with him after all the shit they’d gone through– but yes, he had to, and yes it was difficult, but he had to rely on him if he ever wanted to get Lance back. The problem way with how much Keith could trust him; he hopes he can.

“We’re gonna need Lotor.”

– 

When Keith spots the conniving not-as-bad-as-before-but-still-pretty-bad son of a bitch sparring a Blade member as part of a eight month rehabilitation (he’s about two months in), he punches him square in his face. 

His fist cuts him in the nose, cracking it out of place effectively as Lotor doubles over in pain with a groan. Blood drips out of his nostrils and Keith lets a smile curl on his lips, happy to see the jackass hurting like this. “Hello to you too,” Lotor spits, peering up and all Keith can focus on is the _finally_ growing buzzcut sprouting on the top of his head.

Keith scoffs, slapping his face away with the back of his hand and dragging him by the ear to Kolivan’s tents. The camp leader waits patiently, skimming over a map they crudely formed in the short time they were in Logan and circles out the unidentified parts of the city. Lotor’s taking a weird side-eye at it, which isn’t left unnoticed by Shiro who creates a body wall between the two. 

“Found ‘im,” Shiro states, gaining Kolivan’s attention. It doesn’t take too long to convince Lotor to go along– Kolivan states it’s good PR with the other members– and the three of them set off; of course, not without a few words in private between him and Thace.

“He’s going along way too easy with this,” Keith states, and the man nods in agreement. While Ulaz is stuck in the infirmary to tend to a broken arm, Thace offers to trail behind (and by that, he means hide in the truck of the bed until he’s needed) in case anything goes wrong. An inkling of a feeling in the pit of Keith’s stomach tells him, yeah, it probably will– this time, he’s not going to deny it.

They set off soon after, an uncomfortable silence thrumming in the truck as Shiro drives them out of Salt Lake and into Logan. It’s a long, emotionally exhausting ride and Keith spends the better half of it glaring out the window. Lotor eventually breaks the silence with a long spiel about how he really _is_ trying his best, blah blah, Keith calls bullshit.

They reach the decimated city of Logan, fire smothered long ago and ashes left in it’s wake. It’s unnerving to be there, so long after they’d escape yet somehow, so fresh in his mind. The air still reeks of smoke after the fire, long flames licking high into the sky until it’d died out without anything to feed it; Keith likens it to himself.

They trod through the soot and cracked, burned bones of the fallen, Keith keeping his eyes level as to not to look at the destruction. After Lance, the body count had totaled to a frightening twenty-eight campers and Blade members killed in the fight; who knows how much was left of them in the carnage. Keith continues forth, until they reached the building he recognizes as the place they’d spent two weeks of hell in. His eyes linger, for long long seconds until he can’t take it and turns his gaze back to Lotor. “Well,” he mumbles, arms folded over his chest and jerking his head towards the scenery around them. “Lead the way.”

Lotor stalks along, hand fidgeting against the knife against his hip as he takes glances around the camp. Lotor must be off his game to think he doesn’t look suspicious, at all, because Keith’s already picked up that something is wrong only seconds into their trip. Which is fine, because he’s suspected something was wrong the entire time he’d started this whole rehab program, and it makes him feel better that he was right. Keith taps his knuckles against Shiro’s arm, taking a discreet glimpse at the “former” Galra. His brother nods in understanding, keeping a wary eye around them as Lotor leads them into a secluded area of buildings.

It’s obviously cleaner than the rest of the area, gray smoke only whisping against the floors of the buildings. The air is crisp here, the last of the charred human scent wafting away from the main area of destruction. It doesn’t take too long to find the right building, and a few quick excuses from Lotor bring them inside. It all happens a little too quick, a little too convenient– the documents are in their hands in no time, but Lotor refuses to let go of the file about him.

As they reach the outdoors and Keith greets the sights of the ruins of Logan, he also meets two other things: one, a pair of very angry eyes that are somewhat familiar, and all he can think of is a name similar to Caleb. Two, the cold metal of a pistol at the back of his neck, biting deep into his skin. Shiro is in the same situation, arms slowly lifting behind his head as the group of Galra start to move in from the shadows. It’s not too many; he could take them.

“I cannot believe it was _this_ easy to get you two alone and out here,” Lotor sneers, making a move to flip his hair only to sort of awkwardly swing his balding head. “I’ve just been waiting for the perfect moment, and you two are idiots enough to fall into anything, just to find a “lead.””

Backtrack– waiting. Lotor’s been in their hold for half a year now, how fucking long– not to mention how pathetic it is– to have been waiting for them to go to Logan, on the short chance that Keith gets bit and things go haywire?

“Wait– dude, let me get this straight,” Keith says, disbelief pushed in his voice as his hand makes a discreet move to flick on his walkie– Thace would be in any second. “You’ve been just holding out on the chance that I’d come back to Logan, and you’d get your tiny rag-tag group of leftover Galra to take me down because you can’t do it alone?”

“More or less,” Lotor says, tapping the point of his knife against Shiro’s chin, whose arms are wrenched back by the others. It’s a little sad, honestly. “Getting not only you, Keith, but your big brother here was a bonus perk. Haggar will appreciate this gift.”

“Yeah,” Keith snorts, and watches as the familiar suit of black sweeps down from the shadows and peers through his rifle, aim square on the head of the somehow still living Morvok. A simple tap of his pointer finger against his palm causes a ruckus, bullet wedging itself between his eyes as Keith throws off the pair behind him and reels his fist around, slamming one of the pistols into a Galra cheek while his leg knees deep into his abdomen, sending the Galra flying into his partner. They fall in a heap and Keith is quick to aim, only firing when the two of them make a move to reach for their own weapons. Shiro’s arm sets off a familiar warm whirr, and Keith leaps back as it blazes to life in a searing heat. He promptly burns off one of the soldier’s faces, screech escaping him as Keith focuses his attentions on Lotor. “You really think we’d be alone with you without backup? The Blade definitely doesn’t trust you _that_ much.”

Keith steps forward, pistol trained in the piercing blue gaze as he backs Lotor up until he meets the solid wall of Thace’s chest, who’s got a look on his face that could rival Shiro’s dad glare. Lotor practically shrinks, any and all desperation in his fleeting moments drifting away like a plastic bag, in the wind. Keith pats himself on the back for that one, before he lifts the pistol and jams it right between those annoying fucking teeth. Thace steps out of the way.

“I sure as hell am not going to miss you.”

Keith snatches the rolls of paper tucked in his hand, and he fires. 

“That went well,” Thace comments. Keith agrees. Shiro stops burning off Galra faces.

They go home.

– 

Soon after, Keith delivers both his and Lance’s medical documents on Allura’s lap, who’s flipping through yet another binder. He’s met with an excited gasp, and the other two turn their heads momentarily, before going back to equipment set-up. Right, he had to do a MRI scan (probably explained why they had moved rooms momentarily) and take a sample of something. He had that on his plate today.

Allura stands quick, opening the manila folders and picking through the papers as quickly as she can. They’re a little smudged and torn and covered in ash, but they’re well enough in-tact to be able to read it. Her eyes are scanning the paper faster than he can make a move to sit down, and once more she lets out another gasp. “Just as I suspected!” Allura jabs her finger at some weird diagram, and pictures of his brain he didn’t even knew they _took,_ “You’ve been immune pre-outbreak, and it seems it’s a genetic mutation developed over time– presumably, one of your parents had a previous, weaker strain injected and formed an antibody, and that passed onto you in a stronger form. It also seems to only show any effects on your brain– something about an influx of production of chemicals in your body that appears as an after effect of potential bites, as a sort of regulation for other things. Aside form that, we won’t know what could happen until we’ve had a scan…”

“Then do one. I’ll stay here until I’m no longer needed,” Keith mumbles, picking at the dirt under his nails. “I’m sure it’ll be alright.”

“Well…” Allura wrings her hands out, pressing the tips of her fingers to her lips and taking a wary glance around. The scanner seemed functional enough, but something else must’ve been on her mind. “I mentioned I needed a sample, right?”

“That you did.”

“I need a brain tissue sample,” Allura clarifies, and her gaze is cast to the metal tray of some very clean, albeit a little unnerving. “This requires a biopsy, which I’ve learned most of my technique from my father’s works, and I’ve practiced on more than a few corpses, so while it’s not the safest and I am definitely not the best qualified, I could do well enough to not get you killed or die by infection. However, you’ll be out for maybe two or so days– I’m aiming that to include any recovery time and avoid that initial discomfort.”

“Do it, then. It’s not a big deal.”

“We have to shave a part of your head and drill a hole in your skull to collect a sample of brain tissue, Keith.”

_That_ grabs his attention. The whole partially shaved head wasn’t a big deal; he had enough hair that he could hide the spot until it’d grown back a decent amount, but the drilling an actual hole into his skull and collecting a bit of his brain was unnerving. He trust Allura enough, sure, but even he didn’t see that coming.

Allura notices his discomfort, and elaborates further. “Our best bet is to try to extract that underlying cause for your immunity from your brain; it seems to be the only major body part affected by it, and even so, Shiro noted that it’s _enhanced_ your performance more than it detriments it. Whether or not that was a ploy from the Galra had they had their way with you, I’m not sure, but I know it’s the key to a cure here. If I can figure out what it is that makes it tick, I can make a vaccine. Plain and simple. Lab rat strength at first, of course- then we work our way up,” she pauses, looking him dead in the eye with a determined look, “and Lance _will_ come back.”

Part of him thinks that he should consider this further. Most of Keith thinks that he’s sick of running away from what the Galra had done to him, and decides it’s in his best interest to take what they wanted for him and shove it up their asses; Keith’s gonna take advantage of his immunity by helping people, not killing them. So with a firm nod, eyes blazing with fire, he gives his consent.

And so the trials begin.

– 

He’s conked out for three days after the biopsy, and after that, it’s a waiting game. Keith counts the days pass by in a journal, tallies spreading across the flimsy white sheets as he goes through the motions on a canoe. He distracts himself by helping Pidge with her dorky little tech stuff when she needs him to go pick up something for her (“I could make electricity for the camp, again, Keith! I-I could fuckin’ put wifi up in this bitch!”), tending to the gardens Terry had taken upon himself to start to grow, wrassling Shiro to the ground in his downtime, learning how to _cook–_ him, Keith, cooking!– with Hunk, helping Coran sew little stuffed animals for the children of the camp. Keith makes Lance a shark, for when he comes back. Coran sets aside a stash of supplies for Lance to sew him a hippo. 

“He’s got such nimble fingers!” Coran cries, vastly unaware that he’s sewn a pink thread through his pointer finger. “I’ve never seen someone sew so fast! He says his old high school sewing class called him The Tailor because of how easy he can thread a needle!”

Keith thinks that means something else, but he elects to ignore that insinuation.

Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into a month, and on the eve of a rainy May 23rd, Keith heads over in his bright red raincoat to Slav’s building. The ground is like mush, sticking to the soles of his shoes and he absently thinks he needs a new pair of sneakers soon. He makes sure not to track any mud into the sterilized hospital by kicking off his shoes on the dirty mat, and to his dismay, they rip at the heels with the force of his shoe tugging. Keith mourns the loss of his shoes, and considers himself lucky that the fuzzy blue socks on his feet aren’t damp. Things to worry about later.

He walks into Lance’s room just as Allura is stooped over leaning to the table, clearing her throat briefly before pressing the “record” button on the barely-functioning camera, a nervous expression on her face. “Trial number forty-six, entering stage five, _Resurgo._ As always, my name is Allura Brooks, and I am the acting microbiologist and virologist from the San Diego Center for Disease Control, currently residing in Salt Lake City, Utah. On standby are my colleagues, residing internist and surgeon Shay Eiden, as well as immunologist Slav Theba. For safety measures, we have computer engineer and pilot Matthew Holt fully equipped to handle rogue cases. Also joining us,” her eyes glance to Keith and she cracks a smile he can’t help but return, “resident Galra ass-kicker Keith Kogane, also known as the only living, known human with a developed immunity to the Kalinago Disease. Test subject forty-six has responded positively to the K46 vaccine thus far, and today’s injection will determine the final outcome.”

Allura stands, brushing off her lab coat and turning to the wall of encased rats and pulling out the box, far right from where Keith’s standing. He scoots a little closer to watch, leaning in behind Matt as the two watch with enraptured attention. The scientists and doctor quickly discuss a few things, then pull the top off of the box. Matt is quick on the draw, pistol trained on the box in case of an emergency and they check on the little guy.

So far, it’s their most successful test yet. The rat, or as Keith calls him “Haggar”, is much more responsive than he had been before the injections. Mostly, the latest test had made him lethargic, as the mouse sleepily props his head up to look at the faces. He doesn’t look nearly as infected, anymore. 

Allura pulls on a thick leather glove, the other in a rubber glove as she carefully holds down the mouse and injects stage Resurgo into the rat. It’s never pretty to watch, and Keith honestly feels bad they have to endure this– but they have to figure out a cure instead of accidentally killing Lance by lethal injection. Not that the mice don’t deserve to live, it’s just that they’ve already turned before they got their hands on them and it’s easier to keep them and hold out for a better life for them.

They watch with baited breath as the pinkish liquid drains from the syringe, pooling somewhere inside of the little mouse as they await the response. Allura suspects it’ll be like they “died” again and come back hopefully as responsive as they were previously, side effects included. Whatever happens, Keith will take what he can get.

Moments pass. The serum begins to settle in and the mouse just– keels over. Stops fidgeting and rolls on his back, tongue darted out his mouth as Allura tries to focus the camera on him. Nothing’s happening, he just stays completely still and dead as can be and they let it sink in that this is another failed trial. But they were so close, and just a few tweaks and he’s sure Allura can fix it–

then, a squeak.

Tiny and soft and tired and exhausted but a squeak nonetheless, and their eyes turn away from the syringe to the rat in the little tub and he rolls again, struggling on his feet. He sniffs, curiously, but none of them can tell what the fuck just happened– he’s acting the same, sniffing for food that would inevitably be their human flesh.

And because Keith likes to take one for the team, he pulls the leather glove off of his hand and sticks his fingers in the tub, right in front of the mouse’s face. Allura screeches, and he shoos her away momentarily. If he gets bit, it’s not like anything’ll happen– it’ll just hurt.

The mouse sniffs. Darts his tiny pink nose in the air and wafts in the human scent radiating off Keith, takes glances between his surroundings, and does the most magical thing Keith has ever seen in his life. The little fucker wobbles right into his hand, and Keith immediately renames this little shit Cure because holy, holy _fuck._ He isn’t biting, he’s just sniffling and nibbling and spitting and rolling and pissing himself in Keith’s hand, and when he’s laid back onto the tub and Keith quickly disinfects his hand, it comes in waves.

They fucking did it. They fucking did it! 

It’s Matt who breaks the silence, with a holler of “HOLY SHIT, DUDE!” and promptly picking Slav up in his scrawny little arms, and they’re both swept into a hug into Shay’s powerful arms and the three of them are cheering, whooping, hollering and bursting with absolute joy, and he’s almost certain Slav is crying. Keith slides his eyes from the spectacle to Allura, who’s staring at the syringe in disbelief, then looks at him, and they both let the dorkiest fucking grins spread on their faces. There’s a bit of distance, and Keith thinks _fuck it_ as he runs forward into her outspread arms, and he’s tossed around like a little monkey with cackles of happiness ringing in his ears. Allura hugs him tight, and he’s koala-maneuvered himself in her grip and the both are them are just so fucking happy, man. It took a year and seven months, and Lance getting bit and Keith’s horrendous stubborn nature and sense of justice to develop a fucking cure, but they did it. They did it, and its on the tip of his tongue, and he tries to spill out the words but all they come out with is in a choked sob of, “I’m getting him back!”

“You are,” Allura whispers in his ear, once she’s let him down and Shay’s pulled them into a big ol’ group hug. “We are, Keith. All thanks to you.”

They are, and that is enough.

Word spreads fast around camp, after that. He’s being congratulated more than he’s ever been and called Vaccine Boy more than his real name, and spread with love and affection as the weeks tumble by. Allura, sadly, has barred entry to any non-medical staff in the building in case of emergency, so he’s stuck with second-hand news from Shay. From what he knows, as of June 5th he’s beginning to be less “hungry, want brains” boy and more, “oh, I was once a human” boy and it makes his heart swell. Keith’s never felt happier than he does then, clinging to that inkling that this is really happening. Briefly, he wonders why it took so long for them to start the trials, but he remembers that she mentioned a bit of leeway to make something that would work on his giant human body, and dismisses the thought. Lance is coming back inevitably, that’s what matters.

On June 16th, he’s sitting criss-crossed on the couch home alone, flannel pajama pants covering his feet and the warmth of Lance’s jacket embodying his shoulders as he thumbs through Pidge’s copy of _The Things They Carried,_ a book he finds he relates to more than he’d realized. He’s somewhere around the pages of fifty-two to fifty-four when they sort of bleed together, font running black until he realizes his own vision is black and feels a pair of hands covering his eyes.

“Haha, very funny Shiro,” he mumbles, swatting at the back of his brother’s hands. “Go bother your boyfriend or something.”

A pair of lips brush against the top of his head, soft and heavy all at once and Keith freezes. His palms stop swatting, running along prominent knuckles and long fingers that are too soft to be Shiro, too long to be Pidge, less strong more dainty than Hunk, and a million names run through his head until the dawning realization plows up out of his throat like a freight train and he skyrockets off planet Earth and to the moon, gazing at the endless sea of blue and stars and remembers those ridges he held so long ago, digits dipping into the slight crevices on his palms and Keith’s heart runs a mile per minute. Slowly, the hands draw away and he sees that familiar expanse of warm and brown and beautiful skin, always so soft and so freckled and his neck cranes to see him, and when he does, it is the most beautiful thing he has ever had the privilege to lay his eyes on.

Rolling waves of blue crash into the sandy beaches of violet, and he feels the sensation of home swelling in his chest and spiralling and flooding him from his temples to his toes and he really, really looks at the beauty before him. His smile is lopsided and he looks very tired, and there’s more scars than he’d like him to have, but nonetheless he is the image of perfection. He’s everything Keith wants, and more.

“Hey,” Lance breathes, and brushes his fingers against Keith’s cheeks, wet with tears. Keith falls in love all over again. “Told you I’d come back.”

Keith leaps. Swings his arms tight around the lanky form uncaring of how stupid or bad he looks and revels in the sea of eternity that is Lance, legs climbing over the couch to crawl onto him and Lance just holds onto him like a lifeline, and he feels so, so safe. His fingers curl tight into the worn baseball tee, sobbing into his neck as he just tries to remember everything he ever loved about Lance and more, right here, in the flesh and alive and it is a feeling of bursting emotion. He loves this, he needed this more than anything, and fuck, fuck– 

“I love you,” Keith whispers, foreheads tipping together and trying to wipe away rivulets of tears on his cheeks with shaking hands and Lance just chuckles, millimeters from his lips.

“I love you too.”

Keith leans forward, and they kiss with an ignited passion he hasn’t felt in months, and all he can think of is how he’s returned home.

– 

Two weeks later, Lance is in tip-top condition and Keith has claimed the title as World’s Clingiest Boyfriend. He refuses to leave Lance’s side, even going so far to sit on the toilet while Lance showers and just, being there. Lance does not mind one bit, hanging off of him equally as much as he tries to readjust as best as he can. No one expects him to catch up quick, considering he’s missed seven months worth of action and has to keep a new headcount of everyone who’s left. 

One night, they join on rooftop with entwined hands and realize there’s a lot to discuss. A hanging silence burns into Keith’s ears as they stare out at the sunset, from the same roof Keith considered throwing himself off of, and he shivers.

“You cold?” Lance asks, quiet and slurred. It’s a little hard to speak, when he hasn’t done it in so long– but apparently, he’d been technically alive for a week before Keith knew; his initial anger was replaced with love and warmth when Lance told him he wanted to tell him how much he loves him when they finally met again.

“I should be asking you that,” Keith mumbles, playing with his boyfriend’s fingers as he curls himself between his legs and into his chest. It’s a numbing sensation, and both of them know fairly well by now that some of the vaccine effects included a slight aversion to the cold; they were both used to that heat that came with Kalinago.

“I’m okay,” Lance mumbles, lips pressed into the back of his head and chin rubbing against the tiny patch of buzzed hair. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

Keith dances his fingers against the soft skin of Lance’s palms. “I’ll listen.”

He does. With a deep breath, Lance tips his head into the nape of his neck and sighs, quivering.

“I bit you.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, Keith,” he bites, and his hands squeeze tight. “I bit you. You trusted me, and you give me all of you and I bite you. I didn’t know I was doing that because I feel like I’ve been in a coma for months, but I should’ve– my brain– god, fuck, something should’ve stopped me. Some little thing in my brain should have said _hey, cut that shit out!_ but it didn’t and I bit you, and if it was anyone else, I would’ve killed them. Keith, fuck, I almost– I almost killed you. I almost killed you, baby, god, why–“ his hands start to tremble, “why’d I do that? Why, why, why, you could have died and I wouldn’t have been the wiser because I was stupid and let myself get bit, but god Keith, I wouldn’t have it any other way–”

“I would.”

Lance stops. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Keith whispers, harsh, and shuffles in closer to Lance. He finds strength for his words. “I mean, maybe all of this– we would’ve been okay if I– if you– if we knew I could’ve taken that bite. I could have saved you, Lance, and we could put Logan behind us and work through everything together, and I knew something was fucked up about me, and I just– I just let you. Go. And-and I hated myself, for so fucking long because I stopped focusing on you and started just getting angry and frustrated and you, you want me to be this pillar but fuck, Lance, I couldn’t. I couldn’t be okay for everyone else, and I let myself fall apart and be a dick and kill things maybe I didn’t need to kill and stop remembering why the hell I was doing all of it. None– none of that would’ve fucking happened if I let myself get bit!”

They both stop. Hands woven tight together like a basket case, tethered tight and then they– they just _laugh._ Let little petals of laughter bubble up from their chests when they realize that they’re both just wallowing in self pity, and things suck a lot and they both have feelings but they’re talking and discussing and communicating, trying to fix it and that’s what’s important. They laugh for a long time, until their sides hurt then they’re rolling over in a bruising kiss, mouths wet and hips rolling and Keith cards a hand through those pretty brown locks and hooks his feet behind Lance’s back, keeping him in place against his hips, and bites back that moan in the pit of his throat.

With more love in his eyes (and his groin) than he’s ever felt, looking at those navy blue pools and smiling like idiots at each other because he finally has his fucking baby back, he remembers a game they’d never finished.

“Nineteen,” he whispers, hot and heavy against his mouth and Lance whines, chasing after the retreating pink of Keith’s tongue. “What’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

“Really? _Now_ we’re finishing that game of 21 questions, like nine months later when I’m totally wanting to get balls-deep, bro, and you’re all like “hell fuckin’ yeah get in there,” and I’m horny and I missed you so, so fuckin’ much and we finally get to do this without having to worry about anything else, and you want to finish _now?”_

“Yup,” Keith answers, and digs his nails into Lance’s back. “Answer, you big dummy.”

“You,” he says, quick and firm and resolute and Keith feels a heat crawl on his cheeks. “Keith Kogane, vaccine extraordinaire, prettiest boy in the world with a knack for making Cuban boys fall in love with him, is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll scream it from the rooftops! Keith Kogane is the fucking best!”

“Shush, shush,” Keith chuckles, halfheartedly pressing his fingers to Lance’s lips to silence him, and he grins lazily. “C’mon, ask me something.”

“You ever jerk off while thinking about me?”

“Lance!” Keith slaps his palm into his boyfriend’s chest, mock anger in his face but playfulness lilting in his voice. “You’re so gross.”

“Answer, answer, cowboy!”

“Fine!” Keith surges forward, teeth clacking into a hard and wet and sloppy kiss, leaving the Cuban dazed in his wake. He smirks against his lips, and with a seduction a siren would be jealous of, he drawls out: “Every fuckin’ night, baby.”

Lance tries to go back in for another kiss, but Keith just stops him with the heel of his palm and Lance cries out in protest. “Keith! You’re killin’ me here, you fuckin’, fuckin’ sexy wildabeast or some shit like that. I’m dying. I’m dying _again.”_

“Not funny.”

“Totally was. Now hurry up and ask so I can get my love-makin’ on.”

“Will you marry me?”

Lance’s arms flail, awkward in the position and scrambles for purchase, falling with a heavy “oof!” on Keith’s chest and gazing up at him with wonder, adoration, disbelief, all of the above in those oceans of eyes. “W-wait,” he sputters, red hot mahogany blossoming on his cheeks. “Really?”

“Yea. Really. Let’s get– get married, Lance.”

He pauses, and the world falls on a standstill and Keith doesn’t have some weird epiphany like he fucked up, and he waits. Patient. Lance begins to smile.

“You are the craziest fucking man I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a _fuck yes.”_ Lance seals his lips with a kiss.

Somewhere between the lines of the desperate kisses they share in the dead of the night, and the gravel sticking to his back when they fuck on the rooftop and the awkward walk of shame/elation back to the house, and Keith shoving the golden band in Lance’s face (“I stole ‘em,” Keith coughs into his fist, “for you.”), and the morning glow does Keith look at Lance’s face, crumbled heart placed together with a little bit of spit and superglue and love.

_Yeah,_ he thinks, leaning forward to share a sweet morning kiss. _Feels like home._

Sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH i cant believe any of you thought i was actually gonna kill lance off. smh. shameful :/
> 
> lotor's dead bc i still dont like him and FUCK redemption arcs. shit is cute tho.........this chapter was so so sweet lol...
> 
>  
> 
> **IMPORTANT NEWS THO!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> **  
>  LIKE SERIOUSLY!!!!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE READ!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> chapter 19 is sort of my gift to you. i originally planned on more fluffy stuff, but decided hey, how about we ask what YOU want to see? so what i'm planning, is the first half of chapter 19 will be actual content. snippets of the following time, including some Cool Lore Tidbits and shit like that, and it's gonna be good and a lot of fun and im SO excited to write it!
> 
> on the other half, though, that's where you come in! it's fukin' open season and i'm asking what you guys want to see! prompts pertaining to thab, closure on stuff/plotholes i missed, maybe more character interactions, so on! it's my gift to everyone who's stuck it with me this far and dealt with this rollercoaster. 
> 
> if you request something, like maybe more lance and hunk bonding or shiro and matt or pidge or latex zombie or offer prompts like "give me a word and ill write a drabble on it", yada yada, that sort of thing, i will definitely mention you and label which chapter each scene would fit appropriately in! i do ask that everyone try to keep future stuff out of the content and please ask for anything from chapter 1 to 18. 
> 
> sorry if this is dumb, i just like hearing what you guys want to see and i think this is the best way to fulfill more of what people wanna see out of this.
> 
> thanks for reading, and stay tuned! only 2 more to go!


	19. hope, reignited (or the filler chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there IS mentions of underaged drinking in this (depending on whether or not 18 or 21 is the legal age for you), even if it doesnt matter b/c its the apocalypse i still want people to be informed and aware of the content. thank you!
> 
> each request is indicated by a page break. some requests were smooshed together bc of how similar they were, and for fluff requesters i just did whatever. thank you so much!
> 
> ps. requests are a little short, sorry.

So, here’s the thing.

Lance knows for a fact that the majority of North America was affected by the infection. Lack of dividing rivers in neighbouring countries let Kalinago spread everywhere, especially when it began to spiral out of control faster than any of them anticipated. Aside from Cuba, Canada, and Mexico, Lance has absolutely no idea which countries have been affected.

So the day Pidge manages to load up her phone and repower a cellular tower and electricity in the camp, about two months after Lance is brought back, everything goes batshit _insane._

For one, Pidge’s phone is literally in agony trying to work again after nearly 2 years of disservice. Secondly, she’s bombarded with a flood of texts messages that cause their hearts to ache. Friends, family, desperate pleas for anyone out there to respond putting a bit of a damper on their mood.

Some background: Lance had the totally great idea of resetting the power lines to start bringing electricity to other Voltron camps to get an edge on the Galra, and Pidge had the even better idea to use the cell towers to make the spread of information easier among camps. Hence, she’s fishing out her phone from the depths of her backpack and is pleasantly surprised to find it mildly-functional. Now they’re just dicking around on it, making fun of the various ugly photos of Keith and the, like, eighty photos she has of her brother falling which is somehow impressive and terrifying.

Then they check Twitter.

Which, in their case, they all assumed would be dead, or not working in the slightest. Far as they know, everyone on the earth is dead and they’re trying to rebuild with what they have. What they don’t expect, at all, is the live twitter feed from the Trending section.

It is entirely disorienting. Lance spent the last two years of his life thinking that everyone was off as bad as they were, but it never crossed his mind that any countries would be safe. It’s what happened with Cuba; an infected woman got on a plane, and promptly killed the rest of the plane (and Cuba) with a mild feasting and spread of virus. Cuba’s militia was frankly unable to handle the spread, and the country soon fell victim to the infection. There was nothing left...nothing.

Oh, god, that got dark. Lance pulls himself out of the haze and spares a soft smile to his boyf– _husband,_ who squeezes his hand and tips their foreheads together, momentarily. It’s become one of Lance’s favorite coping mechanisms as he recovers from not only half a year of zombification, but prior sprouted PTSD from Lotor’s hand. They draw apart, hands still interlocked and peer back into the phone.

Pidge’s fingers are flying across her social media platforms, accounts from the non-northwestern hemisphere alive and thriving– mostly, if not for the rather daunting “goodbyes to America” posts. It’s– god, it’s fucking weird. They stumble across a post from some British Youtuber Pidge used to watch, and they lean in close as she scrolls, and scrolls– until an image of the color red, with white font that reads “#RELIEFNORTHAMERICA” in the center catches her gaze. She clicks, and everything they knew just collapses.

_“Today is a day of mourning, sacrifice, and a rallying cry from us away from the Americas to call upon the EU to send relief to the quarantined continent of North America. The European Union’s decision to blockade the Americas and quarantine until further notice is a blatant ignorance of the horrific situation taking place in the continent. Europe can no longer sit back and watch our fellow man fall victim to a situation so terrifying, so shocking as the NA Virus, and demand we begin offering relief to the country as the situation is understood further. We simply cannot wait for them to help themselves; Europe has already handled their spectrum of the meager population that was affected, and purified their waters to prevent the spread of NA. I refuse to give up on the North American continent. Go to www.reliefnorthamerica.com/ for further information on the topic.”_

Pidge clicks the link, and the phone manages to crank out the website– albeit a slow connection. Slowly it comes to life, and messages similar to the one they had just read appear. The latest update reads “August 2nd, 2019”, and things sort of start to click together when they realize, that date was fourteen days prior– it’s the 16th, meaning– 

“Holy fuck,” Pidge whispers, and clicks the update. Something about news of the disease, nothing that they don’t already know. “They updated– they updated recently!”

“What the fuck!” Matt screeches, and grabs the phone, eyes skimming as fast as he can over the article before briefing over the calendar, then back to the article. Lance’s ears are ringing when they realize that for the time they’ve struggled, they were certain this is how they’d live, forever. And while he’s certain no country would ever allow potential infection carriers into them, they could have a chance. A final chance, to fight against the slow-dwindling population of infected; that is, if they can make a compelling argument.

“Guys,” Lance breathes, hands shaking as he hovers his hand on the “Contact Us” tab, other hand squeezing Keith’s tight. “Y-You know what this means, right? What it means– if we can show them that a lot of us are okay, can’t they show this to someone? Get someone to, like, send people over to help us?”

Shiro nods thoughtfully, chin in hand as he takes the phone from Matt and switches back to a browser, typing in some keywords for more indepth information about how other countries have dealt with the quarantine of the North American continent, while Lance leans back on the couch and sighs heavily, quivering. Keith looks shellshocked, like he’s trying to comprehend the grounding reality of the situation. They’d spent their new lives struggling, living off a bottle of water for weeks on end and suffering through long-lasting effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. It strikes him as how survivalist they’ve become: teaching a ten year old how to handle a pistol before she learns how to tie her shoes, holding infected killing technique lessons instead of textbook material, treating a source of water like it’s a godsend. It just makes him think hard about how he’s gone from a teenage boy who spent his time chasing boys and girls to a twenty-one year old married man with more kills under his belt than anyone should. How killing infected almost became a game to them, having to deal with the fact that it’s so unlikely they’d ever be able to truly bring everyone back. It was wishful thinking. Here they are, counting down the days until their inevitable death while the outside world carries on. It’s too real. It’s scary.

Keith probably feels him lapsing back into another attack. His hands tense, eyes downcast but not particularly staring at anything and his heart beats in arrhythmia. His breath quickens, and the only thing that seems to pull him back to earth is Keith. His thumbs drags, slow and deliberate against the divots of scars on his hand and he whispers, but it’s kind of a rattle in Lance’s brain, “You with me, Lance?”

Lance nods but there isn’t much heart to it, and finds it hard to say anything, so he just taps his fingers thrice against the back of Keith’s hand. It’s their little thing, if he’s okay with touching and he can’t talk. Keith’s eyes follow his every move, arm wrapping around his shoulder and gently running a hand through the short locks. “You’re okay, Lance,” he says, soft, and presses the pads of his fingers on his temple. “Take your time.”

It takes a little longer than he’d like it to when he comes back from his existential crisis, but he does and he’s met with a comforting silence. It’s not the first time he’s had one of these dissociative episodes in front of his friends, but they’re understanding and close enough to let him be when it happens. He takes a look at the others, a frown pulling at his lips, and mumbles out, “Sorry, didn’t mean to– stop all– every– yea.”

“It’s alright,” Shiro says, and offers a soft smile. “Don’t worry about it too much.”

“Yea,” Pidge adds, more casual yet holding the same weight to it. “No sweat.”

They give him ample time to recuperate, then fall back into focus with a new vigor. Of course, the easiest way to gain attention to them is quite literally send an email explaining their situation. The problem lay within, y’know, that whole photoshop thing where people swear up and down that what you’re saying is fake when there’s physical evidence, and it’s always a big mess, and they’re not really sure how to deal with it. A few ideas are shot around; photo evidence, videos, sending your location, Jesus, even a Snapchat with a geotag. Almost all of these ideas are debunked immediately, as it’s easy to jailbreak a phone, photoshop a picture, fake a video. They needed something concrete, something in the moment to show how very real their situation was, something _live–_

“A livestream,” Lance pipes up, palm smacking his forehead and making grabby hands for Pidge’s phone. He sort of remembers having quite a few followers, because his Instagram was very beautiful and aesthetic-driven and he’s got more than enough people following him from different corners of the Earth; he could gain the most traction there. “Literally, an Instagram livestream. It sounds dumb, but it’s kinda hard to fake being in the United States if you’re, y’know, moving in the moment.”

“That’s. Wow, that’s fucking genius,” Pidge comments, glancing at the phone in worry as he makes an attempt to log into the account. See, he’s lucky he uses the same password for _everything_ but it’s also so foreign to do this, and his thumbs are having a lot of trouble trying to type stuff into the tiny little buttons. Also, Pidge’s phone _might_ completely freeze with the sudden bombardment of notifications. Yeah, that tends to happen when he’s got around one hundred and forty thousand followers, but who’s counting! Who cares! Not him. 

Most of the comments seem to believe he’s dead, or somehow sought refuge and has to go under witness protection to prevent anyone from trying to smuggle information, so that’s neat. The amount of “rest in peace starboy” comments is haunting and pleasing all at once, because it’s like hey, these people cared enough to write that on your latest post. So, nice.

Speaking of.

The last photo he ever posted of was a photo of him holding up a college acceptance letter to Duke University, arm wrapped around his mother who has a face of pure joy. They’re both smiling wide, and his father is on his other side with a kind smile, but his eyes shine with pride. In the background, the blurry figures of his siblings trying to race into the photo are warm and tan against the soft green grasses and the shining blue sky, and the easy yellow of his house. The caption reads, “Couldn’t have done it without you, Duke here I come,” and it makes Lance’s heart ache. He pries his eyes away from the photo, but makes sure to remind himself to charge his own phone later, sitting in the bottom of his backpack with a broken screen. He expands the comments, and almost all of them are quiet “happy birthday”s and “hope you’re okay”. One catches his attention: _“Guys, please stop acting like he would try to reach his phone right now. Who knows what’s going on in the North, I doubt anyone would make a post when their country is quarantined.”_

That...sounds like a challenge.

Because Lance is an attention-thriving, thrill seeking little shit who cares little about consequence and lives in the moment, he passes the phone to Coran, who looks at it with an inquisitive brow. The phone is pulled up, ready to take a photo to post and he quickly gathers everyone on the couch. They oblige, but the looks on their faces scream, “Lance, what the fuck?”

Oh, no, that was just Pidge saying that. “I’m taking a picture for Instagram, Pidge, what does it look like? How else are we gonna make everyone look at this livestream without, y’know, hyping it up first? Let me live a little. Social media was my domain, Pidge. I got this.”

“If you say so…”

“We’ll get it trending, and we’re gonna let everyone know we’re still surviving, dude. Those relief guys were right, we do need all the help we can get– but we aren’t just gonna wait around for it,” Lance grins at Keith, who carries the same bewildered expression as the others and kisses his temple. “We get as much exposure as possible, then we go from there.”

A few more protests are heard but it’s mostly resignation at that point, because it’s hard to dispute something that could ultimately save them. Who would’ve thought, Instagram would be the app that would inevitably save their lives. He can only hope the app is still cool enough, two years later, because it’s a little hard to get the word out when no one looks at it.

But he has hope.

A few minutes later, they’ve situated themselves comfortably and per Lance’s request, show off their gnarliest scar. Pidge lifts her shirt to show the giant red vertical incision down her stomach, Shiro shows off his wicked prosthetic, Allura shows off the angry burns on the underside of her arm and across her back, Matt pulls at his collar to show the scar at his neck. Hunk rolls up his sleeves and showcases the scattered scars on his arms after he got caught with grenade shrapnel, Shay points at the stab wound in her lower abdomen with a happy little grin. Keith thinks, sitting long and hard about his decision before pulling his shirt past his shoulders and letting the scar on his clavicle from their time with Lotor exhibit itself on camera. With a deep breath, Lance removes his shirt, looking over his shoulder with the best smile he can muster as the marbled burns on his back make their debut.

Coran snaps the photo, and when Lance looks at it, it’s fantastic. They look worn down, and beat up and exhausted but very much alive, bones popping in a way that can’t be faked and a bondness that transcends pixels on a screen. Without much thought to a caption (“Hope u missed me”), he takes a shaking breath. Deep. In, out, in, out.

“Alright, Lance,” Shiro says, and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Go ahead.”

He posts it. “I mean, what’s the worse that could happen?” Lance knocks his knuckles into Keith’s cheek, who snorts and waves his hand away. “We end up on the news or somethin’?”

– 

They end up on the news.

Really, they trend on Twitter first. The comments come slow, with cautious questions and Lance answers every single one, answers direct messages, makes himself as real and alive as he can. When things start to pick up, and people start to realize this isn’t a joke or a prank and it is all happening almost two years after the continent was quarantined, people lose their _shit._ His name is up on the number one spot in the trending section, and what follows are things like United States, quarantine, European Union, things he no longer understands and frankly could care less about. What matters is the sheer volume of attention he’s attracting, and a quick post of the wedding ring with a time and date for the livestream starts the eventual domino effect. They’re alive, it’s not a drill, and he’s got a lot of explaining to do.

To prepare for the daunting date of August 20th, 2019, he takes it upon himself to get some very necessary Keith time. Social media is exhausting, especially when he’s forced to relearn buttons and keep tabs on any particular news sources covering the story to make sure they’re following the stream. Pidge and Hunk work to solidify a dodgy connection, alongside the Blade– Kolivan has taken a liking to Pidge and has become her personal “go-get-this-thing-for-me” dog, so that’s nice. 

Back to Keith. Oh, Keith. Brooding and wonderful and cautious Keith, who’s not sure how he feels about people already having found his embarrassing old Instagram account with twenty photos, eighteen of which are knives he used to collect. It’s nostalgic, a rush, but it’s also very nerve-wrecking with how fast things are rolling. One day there’s no hope, and the next people are rallying a cry to provide support to the Americas once more. It’s altogether surreal, and he finds that Keith is the one able to bring him back down from his metaphorical high. 

He finds Keith sharpening blades in the armory with Coran, near complete with his task. When Lance enters, he shapes up immediately and makes a show out of it, trying to impress him with his knife skills but watches it clatter to the floor when a spasm jolts his arm. That’s something they both experience– weird movement post-bite that makes their limbs freak out. It’s a little annoying during target practice, but otherwise, they deal.

Coran waggles his fingers at Lance and shoos off Keith when he’s getting too distracted by Lance, and the two of them intertwine their fingers and head off towards their house. Sometime when Allura started expanding camp, the two of them managed to snag their own home with Jeanine. Right now, she was off with Pidge learning about what to do in case of an emergency; it was hard to believe she was nearly eleven, now, and already so capable of handling whatever life threw at her. She was strong; she had to be.

Lance casts a glance at Keith. This whole being saved thing has thrown him for a loop, and Lance finds him staring off into distance, fighting more than he should, more aggression that normal. His partner is clinging onto that near feral, animalistic sense of being they’d all developed in this time. Modern life is scary, and to think that all of that would just...end. No more running, or fighting or starving or anything is scary in itself, because that’s all they know. They make it to the house and stumble onto the couch, but they’re so enrapt in their trains of thought that they don’t notice. Lance keeps thinking. 

How were they supposed to deal? Their lives had been spent in a never-ending spiral of calamity, one happening after the other. Their bodies were used to struggle and pain and they survived on that adrenaline pumping through their blood. Lance couldn’t differentiate a flesh wound between a gunshot anymore, because they’re both so common that it all melds together in a metaphorical cauldron. No matter how hard they tried, they could never _truly_ rehabilitate themselves. Lance can only sleep for minutes and Keith’s near stabbed him twice when his husband would shift, and there’s just a never ending list of coping mechanisms and unhealthy tics that would prevent them from really living. He’d pull a gun on the pizza delivery guy. He’d stab someone who just wanted directions to a city. Maybe the idea of civilization, true and modern and electronic civilization is far from their grasp but sooner or later, it will happen. Lance isn’t sure if he’s made for that, anymore. 

“I don’t think we are,” Keith mutters, and he realizes he’s said a lot of that out loud. Which is _fine,_ it’s just embarrassing to think that him, Lance, who’s been mentioned on Buzzfeed for impeccable style and brains and is a literal social media monster would be scared of getting all that back. But he is, because no longer is he worried about how many likes a photo has but instead worries about how many more infected he has to kill before his “quota” is filled. “I haven’t said anything, and I don’t think any of us wanna talk about how scared we are. We’re just...reversing all these effects from the apocalypse, and the backlash we’ll get for killing _people,_ because apparently they think these things have a comprehensible train of thought anymore, will be insane. Who knows whether everything will go okay, and we might just get a bunch of inexperienced assholes on our stomping grounds and that– I can’t deal with that, Lance.”

“I don’t think I can, either.” Lance rings his hands through and pulls the phone out from his back pocket. It’s an unfamiliar weight, and Pidge has turned off the never-ending stream of notifications and he only sees important mail, like news sources or federal emails in his inbox. Aside from that, it’s silent; yet they know they’re on the top, they’re trending, and there’s so many theories floating around until tomorrow; August 20th. Lance hosts a livestream, hopefully doesn’t break the world apart, and maybe gets some help down here already. He’s scared of showing them their lifestyle, though– maybe it isn’t the best idea. He can’t back out, though. “I think we can make something work. Who said we have to start using phones and complaining about slow wifi and shitty cable, right? We make do with the good ol’ TV in the kids’ rec room and our walkie talkies. We just gotta show ‘em that we can fight for ourselves, now.”

Keith nods, and Lance finds his thumb scrolling over to Instagram. In a fit of boredom he’s been uploading photos from around the camp, and checking out different theories and stories about the mysterious uploads. Lots of them call his posts fake, and cite the much-too high tech prosthetic acting as Shiro’s arm. Which is understandable, but also, do they even _know_ Pidge? Seventeen year old genius. 

So far, his favorite article is titled “Bisexual Cuban Claims He’s in the United States– We Think He’s Legit”. It’s from some new Buzzfeed knockoff, and as far as he knows most teenagers are enraptured by it. The article talks about his older posts citing his immigration to the United States and his coming out story, as well as his general lifestyle. Then it goes on to analyze his photos, how no aspect of the photo looks like it’s been manipulated nor do the scars have any viable clues of it being cosmetics. Along with that they talk about his wedding ring and the bite on his hand, and the other scars he’s shared in a photo album of his favorites (the burns on his back take the cake) and how everything he’s posted looks too dirty and old to be real. It debunks a lot of claims of the road signs he’s posted to be fake, yada yada, it supports what he says.

His favorite part lies in the section about Keith. They talk about his husband’s instagram and how most dates on his post coincide with the day that everything “happened”, and how “...Mr. Kogane is an extremely well-rounded individual with an affinity for blades…”. It’s fantastic because Keith hates that they used the ugliest tagged photo they have of them, which is him with straightened, blue highlighted hair and a septum piercing holding his middle finger up to the camera.

“I was like, sixteen!” Keith attempted to save himself, “I have newer pictures, why’d they chose _that_ one?!”

Good times. Lance puts away the phone, casting it somewhere on the couch and turning his attentions to Keith. The poor man looks tired, and Lance makes a move to wrap him in blankets. Soon, they’re under a wad of quilts wrapped up in each other, Keith’s fingers tugging the skin on his palm and pressing the bones of his knuckles. That’s around when he notices something. See, Keith’s always been shorter than him; the insoles in his shoes make up for lack of height, but otherwise, Lance was the tall one. But their toes are brushing together, and while usually he’s able to fit Keith’s head under his chin, the black tufts barely scrape his jaw.

“Hey, Keith.” Said man’s eyes dart up, momentarily, before drifting back to the sliver of skin in a hole in Lance’s shirt. Lance huffs a laugh, and sifts a finger through the raven locks under him before whispering out, “Are you getting shorter or am I taller?”

Keith eyes snap up, brows furrowed as he moves back his head to take a look at Lance. Which is weird in itself, because Lance looks nearly the same– save for the patches of stubble sprouting on his chin– and height doesn’t really change his face. His family has a never-ending list of extremely late growth spurts, so it isn’t completely out of the blue. Nonetheless, it seems to scare the shit out of Keith, as he scrambles off the couch and hauls Lance off with him. It’s a blast of cold air and Lance whines, but Keith just keeps stringing him along, barefoot against the hot pavement until he’s forced to his side again, face-to-face with Shiro.

“He’s still only a couple inches taller than me,” Keith insists, much to the confusion to his brother, “his nose should only be reaching my eyebrows and there is no way he’s able to get taller than he already is. Please tell me I’m right.”

“How tall are you, Lance?”

“Like, five-foot-ten last time I measured? But that was when I was seventeen.”

“No, what the _fuck,”_ Keith hisses, and Lance gets jostled back-to-back with his husband. “I only ever got to be five-foot-eleven, you do not get to be as tall as me when you’re _seventeen–“_

“Yup,” Shiro says, backing away from the two of them, with a rather significant space between his hands. Like, at _least_ six inches. “There’s your height difference.”

Keith punches his shoulder, and Lance can’t stay mad at him about it, “Aw, c’mon, baby!” Lance trots after him, waving a goodbye to Shiro. “Don’t get so upset, you look great from up here!”

– 

August 20th comes with a new vengeance. News sites that Lance and his mama would watch in the wee hours of the morning have all eyes on him, angry red sign of “LIVE: Lance Alvarez Livestream Viewing and Commentary” on the top heading of Twitter. He’s made sure to prevent comments, make the stream as smooth as it can possibly be with their shoddy connection. As per request of many, he’s moved the stream to something more stable and modern, and now the world awaits. 

Lance stares out at the road before him. He’s taken a bit of a drive to get to some road signs, and now he sits with Keith in the trunk of the silver white truck. The sun is warm on his skin and the clouds are stark against the rolling blues of the sky. The phone carries a heavy weight in his hand, a reminder of what is to come. It is only a matter of days, before it all comes together.

There’s a few biters ambling around, but they pay no mind to the two in the bed of the truck. The phone lets out a chime, signaling the alarm and Lance slips his fingers between Keith’s. Kisses the bruised knuckles and with a trembling hand, props the phone up. He hits _start._

The screen reflects the two of them, in all their purpled bruises and marbled pink scars and tired eyed glory. He doesn’t take much notice to the viewer count, just waits and strokes his thumb along Keith’s wrist and settles his other hand on the scope of his rifle. Keith casts his gaze over, soft and bursting with love, and with a surge of confidence Lance begins. 

“In case any of you wanna call bullshit,” he begins so eloquently, and reloads the sniper in his arms. “Real gun,” Lance aims the rifle at the head of an infected hovering by the truck, and jerks his head to Keith, towards the phone. “Real bullets.” The rifle fires, a mere kick in his shoulder as it lodges itself in the infected’s temple. “I’d show you the zombie, but I’d rather show you a living one.”

Keith huffs a laugh from behind the phone, hands steady as he keeps the camera to Lance. They circle back into the truck and hightail it out of there, and Keith makes sure to keep the phone trained on the road signs along the map. “We’re currently in Salt Lake City, Utah. Our group has made base there for a year and then some, and we’ve been doing pretty alright. We can go zombie hunting or somethin’ after I get the technical stuff out of the way.”

They don’t really say much when they exit the car. It’s mostly shots of their running feet and the only plausible audio is the puffs of breath, and there’s a dodgy connection and Lance loses phone privileges when Allura has to address those watching with her credentials as proof of their existence. It’s a lot more boring than he wanted it to be, the only interesting part coming when they show off their bites to showcase the reality of a cure for Kalinago. Blah blah, medical stuff, stuff he doesn’t understand too much, and yeah, he gets to kill a few infected on camera (probably to the horror of those watching), but it’s uneventful. 

It stays uneventful, too, once the stream ends and all they do is review what everyone has been saying. Lance taps out somewhere around the time they’re on the fourth news source of the night, trying to see reactions and Lance drags his husband off to the rooftop of Slav’s building, tired and annoyed and disappointed all wrapped in a pretty bow. Which, in reality, he sort of expected it all to be anticlimactic? Maybe a part of him _wanted_ otherwise, but most of him figured it would just be some boring proof stuff and then a little gore for shock factor. Lance wants to stay away from the phone forever, and the two of them stare out into the horizons as the warmth of the sun unfurls from his skin and they huddle for warmth under a blanket. Keith looks extra nice right now, all yellow lights and stars of freckles on his ears and jaw and eyes full of content.

Lance leans over, pressing their lips together soft and steady, and they flop onto their backs with goofy grins. “Think they’ll ever actually come help us out?”

“Maybe,” Keith whispers, and the silence is no longer painful. It is a comforting presence, now. “Maybe not. We’ll make it, either way.”

“Yeah.” Lance draws him close, foreheads tipped together as the last licks of sunlight wash over them, once, before the dark of night draws them in. His toes curl, and they pull the quilt closer to themselves. Lance stares into the fields of lavender before him, dark and breathtaking and it clicks, for Lance. Keith wasn’t just warm, and safe– he was the sun, a fiery hot ball that kept him alive and well, a sort of lifeline in the swirling hurricane of life. Keith is beautiful, Keith is his. “Together, yea?” He holds out his pinkie.

Keith smiles, and curls their pinkies. “Together.”

* * *

 

**CHAPTER 18**  
for: **LeviAckermansBrat**

Keith doesn’t know how to throw an engagement party. It’s understandable; he’s nineteen, and it’s not like he was married _before_ Lance. It’s been Lance and he wants to keep it that way, and logically getting married is the way to go– but none of them had yet to experience that, except Coran, who got married while parachuting off of a helicopter and landed in a field of dandelions. He can’t ask Thace or Ulaz, either, because the two of them shouted their I-do’s while under siege in a firefight between them and the Galra. So, really, he has very little options here.

His first idea is getting married on the rooftop, but then he realizes that place should be associated with venting, and being able to shout out your emotions and not have to filter yourself. It should stay like that. Other ideas are just as inconvenient, or unattainable; the list of safe places in Utah is minimal, and very few are romantic.

Well, except one.

Which is why they’re only a little drunk, passing around bottles of champagne as Latex Zombie moans behind the counter; Keith figures it’s because he’s not able to drink with the rest of them. Lance disagrees.

Shiro stumbles to the front, having had a glass too many (Coran is the chaperone, they’re _fine)_ and raises the chipped glass high in the air. “Guys,” he fumbles, catching himself on Matt’s shoulder and wiping a tear from his eye. The phrase _Matt’s Princess_ is scrabbled across his forehead in Sharpie, and there’s a giant gold sticker on his chest that reads “My name is...ORDAINED MINISTER”. Shiro sniffles, and points to Keith in the crowd. “Little bro. You– holy fuck, you’re...married,” Shiro says the word like it’s a poison to him, moving it around his mouth and gripping his arm. Ow. “Ta’ ta good ol’ Lance here. A-Are you gay?”

“Yes, and you’re drunk,” Keith mutters under his breath a comment of lightweight, and pokes Lance in the rib. Said man is sprawled on the floor, pants lost long ago as he leans over Pidge with a quivering hand, trying to perfect his masterpiece on her arm. It’s– it’s literally just a shitty photo of a hippo and a shark kissing, and the words _Got Hitched!_ in stupid bubbly font over it. He’s also sporting a suction dildo on his ass, so there’s that.

Maybe Keith should clarify a few things. See, when he proposed the idea of hosting their wedding at the sex shop they had their official Bonding Moment™ at, Lance was absolutely thrilled. To the point where he may have gotten a little, a lil’ _somethin’_ behind a dreary Wendy’s during a run because Lance loved the idea that much. That’s not the point– the point is, during that run, they stumbled upon a gas station with an exceeding amount of unopened champagne and thought, fuck it, why not have a little fun? They’re getting married. They’re old enough, by standards of their heritage because literally _everywhere_ else they could drink. It’s also the week before Lance’s birthday, so it’s killing two birds with one stone. It’s a good time. Keith could really use some Funyuns, right about now. _Drunchies._

Keith bats his hand at Shiro, who’s beginning to slump over his lap as he tries to take another sip of the bottle. Keith tells him, fuck no you’ve had too much, and it starts this whole dumb argument about how Keith can’t decide what “too much” is because he is _too much,_ as a person, God, Keith’s vision is starting to fog up a little.

He sits Lance up with a whine, pawing at his chest and tipping his forehead into the warm body before him. Lance hums, strumming a hand through his hair and leaning on his elbows. “‘kay, guys,” he slurs, trying to keep his head upright. Hunk takes a break from sorting a wall of condoms to be color-coded, and sits himself beside Shay (other chaperone). “I haven’t drank in _years._ Like, since I last saw my parents so– so we gotta do this right, okay?”

“Lay it on me, buckaroo,” Pidge sounds from beneath him, and he glances over. Poor Terry’s desperately trying to keep her from cracking her head open, because she is even more of a lightweight than Shiro and got buzzed after one glass– under Matt’s careful eye, of course. Also, after she practically threatened to maim him if he didn't let her have fun with the rest of them. "You said it yourself," she said, arms folded over her chest with a disgruntled expression. "It's no fun being the sober one, and you've been drinking since you were sixteen— ah, ah, ah, no denying it! I've been in your room, you ass!" He lets her, only because she had turned his words on him and Matt finds that exceedingly impressive. So she's having fun.

“You– oh my god, I love you guys. Like, like _soooo_ much. Seriously, I’da killed myself had I-I not found you guys, seriously. ‘nd sometimes, I-I think about my good pal Keith here–“

“Lance,” Keith chuckles against the crook of his neck, “we’re, like, married pals.”

“Shh, shh, and like, I think about how we were– we were gonna all go to C-Canada, and I never told anyone this but I didn’t think we would make it, y’know? Like, that’s sad and all, but it’s hard out there! It’s real– really hard, and I don’t think we woulda survived. We would’ve never been with each other, and like, yeah, we would never have had’ta get bit and all that, maybe, but fuck! F-fuck, dude, you guys are so great. Thanks for like, watching me get married? And grow up? Ugh, god, I need a tissue, I’m _crying,”_ Lance blubbers, tearing off his shirt and scrubbing his face with it before discarding it into the abyss of the sex shop. Latex Zombie makes a noise of approval, and the rest join in with jelly arms. 

“We love you _tooooo!”_ Shiro wails, and throws his arms around the two of them with tears streaming down his face. “Good job on the marriage!!”

The rest of the night is pretty similar, or he thinks it was. The few things that stand out to him are as follows: Lance loses all of his clothing except his underwear, Shiro is dared to punch a hole into the wall and busts his prosthetic in cinderblock, Matt tries to do a handstand and topples a shelf of vibrators, Hunk displays his condom masterpiece and juggles butt plugs, Pidge has a dickfight with Allura, Terry’s glasses break when Pidge tries to give him, a, quote, “Biiiiig hug, you cutie!”, and he shamefully admits he doesn’t _really_ need them, and Pidge screams “Me fucking _too!”,_ Shay braids Keith’s hair with dandelions and makes it look super cute, Latex Zombie is probably annoyed beyond belief at the destruction of it’s store, Coran tucks them underneath towels and blankets and uses couch stuffing to keep their heads away from the hard wooden floors.

Lance and Keith exchange their I do’s by way of porno magazine cutouts, and Keith lets it sink in. Yeah, this is good. 

He wants to spend his life like this forever. And with Lance, he can.

* * *

 

**CHAPTER 8**  
for: **cipheredsong**

Shiro likes a lot of things. He likes hot chocolate, copious amounts of Svedka Vodka, little tiny teacups with even tinier handles, cats and pigs, the color blue, and Matthew Holt. Well, he’s actually in love with him, but he’s too shy to admit it because Matt is so awesome and cool, and he’s just. Shiro.

He knows he’s cool, he knows he’s good looking and reliable and trustworthy and badass, but Matt is on a whole different level. Matt’s so cool without even thinking about it, going through life with a skip in his step and a shrug if it doesn’t work out. Matt is the embodiment of I-don’t-give-a-fuck, and it’s a quality Shiro has admired ever since they were six years old and Matt admitted, shamelessly that he cries when he gets hurt. It’s amazing. Matt is so blissfully unaware about his coolness, too, which is– just, wow.

Shiro knows a lot of things, but he also doesn’t know a lot of things. Like how to cook the perfect hard boiled egg, or do a cartwheel, or how to confess to his best friend of twenty-one years who he is absolutely head over heels in love with. 

So when he does do it, it’s in a really stupid and awkward way, and Matt _loves_ it.

He’s getting his bandages changed, and really, everything is fine and should feel and look fine, and Matt looks so damn fine, ‘cause his hair is pushed back and he’s not wearing glasses anymore and sandy locks wisping against his neck. There’s coils of lean muscle under the t-shirt he wears, and the light plays off his cheeks so wonderfully and Shiro feels like he’s been suckerpunched in the gut because of this. Shiro is a very emotional man, he’s just tired and people think that he’s serious because of it. But this– oh, this, this sight before him is enough to spring him awake with a new vigor.

He doesn’t really know why it came out like it did, but the way Matt blinks up from the book in his lap with a bewildered gaze, that Shiro realizes he said, “Damn, Matt, you’re hot as fuck,” like it was his _job._ It’s a funny situation, in actuality, and Matt stares at him with the confusion of a thousand pygmy goats in an ocean, and sets his book down.

“You feelin’ okay?” he murmurs, so soft and presses that warm hand against Shiro’s forehead, and Shiro melts. Is an oozing puddle of Shiro on the floor, heart squeezing against his ribs and he punches out this weird breath. 

“Yup, yup, I’m okay,” he is not okay, “I just think a lot,” no, he doesn’t think, he just says, “‘nd like, you look good. I’ve been in love with you for twenty years. Uh, have you had breakfast?”

Yeaah, Shiro should keep his mouth shut. 

It’s not a joke though, nor is it false. Shiro’s had boyfriends and girlfriends of every kind, but never once had any of them brought that same spark that Matt gave him. Matt is electrifying, a lemonade on a hot summer’s day, and that’s what drew him in the most. Shiro never got to be spunky; he was by the book, he was “turn that in, finish that next,” and never got a taste of living life to the fullest when he wasn’t with Matt. He just grew up being studious and boring, his good looks and charms keeping him afloat in the social aspect. Matt just drew people in, and he sure as hell drew Shiro in because love hath no boundaries and he found himself dancing around his being for years on end. It’s nice to get out his feelings, but also, what the fuck was that execution? He totally had a romantic getaway planned, steal a car and drive to Kansas and bring a cow home, kiss him under the stars and do a sexy smile and call him the most beautiful thing ever. Matt would blush, and it’d be perfect, and it’d be– 

“You’re– you have to be joking,” Matt mutters, fists unclenching and clenching in his lap. “Please don’t be joking.”

“No, I’m– I’m not. Sorry. I’m in love with you, and all that– not just like, I love you, but I literally can’t exist without you, so like, yea. In love. Sounds nicer too, don’t you think? Mm, yea, in love is a nice feeling, which is what I am for you and have been for twenty years because you’re so awesome and I’m only kind of awesome, and you helped me become a better me and that’s so fuckin’ incredible, and you’re amazing and I can’t stop talking about you, now. I’ve literally said the same spiel to Keith hundreds of times over so I can leave if you–”

“Takashi Shirogane, for the love of God, shut up!”

Shiro zips his mouth. Then Matt blinks, smiles, and rushes forward for a kiss. It isn’t earth shattering or powerful or incredible, but it feels right. Shiro sinks himself into the familiar feeling, lips pressed up against each other and they draw away with a huff.

“I’m in love with you too, dude.”

Oh. Nice. Matt licks his lips and inches a kiss down his neck.

Shiro is a happy man.

* * *

 

**BEFORE**  
for: **Levi_Ackerman_is_Bae, thelovelylunareclipse**

Lance plays an ungodly amount of video games. This is understandable, because he is a nineteen year old with a heart of gold and a little extra spending money from his summer job as a grocer in Cuba. Things are nice here, things are easy. He snaps a photo of the fruit stands, posts it to Instagram with the caption “Workin’ nine to five, what a way to make a living…” as homage to Dolly Parton. He’s having a good time, when his phone rings in his back pocket as he’s helping out a pretty lady, and doesn’t pick up. It rings two, three, four times before he gets annoyed by it, and picks up. Lance plays a lot of games, but nothing could prepare him for what the rest of his life would entail.

After the call, he’s on the first plane out of Cuba and to Florida with the help of his stewardess aunt, and makes leaps and bounds to reach his family in Miami in record time. His sister has been hospitalized; some freaky dude started attacking everyone at a mall, growling and angry and foaming at the mouth before biting quite a few unlucky fellows, then getting shot by police. Lance rushes to the hospital there soonafter, and now he’s waiting in the ICU with his mother’s hand grasped tight in his palm. She feels a little warm; maybe it’s the stress. 

They’re discharged without much else, after his sister is bandaged up, and Lance calls up his buddy Hunk to keep him company in this trying time. The Garretts join them, and they’re a big happy family, and things are going so nice and well, and good. So, good.

Back then, Lance did not realize that the virus was slow acting, until it ravaged the body and transformed itself. Lance did not expect his sister to shamble out of the backyard door, and when Hunk and Lance go to investigate, they do not expect to see her graying corpse frothing at the mouth and lunge for their necks.

One thing Lance has learned, always keep a weapon on him. He’s had a few too many instances where he was mugged, and a few more where Hunk gets injured in an attempt at heroics. He grew tired of losing his wallet every other week, and decided, fuck it I’m gonna buy a gun. So he did, and he keeps it in his persons as often as he can out of paranoia and a need to feel that weight, and aims the pistol with shaking hands at his sister.

“C’mon, Mariana,” he begs, safety clicked on as he backs into Hunk and tries to will her away. He saw something on the news, like her, yesterday down in Cuba where it was “cared for” by the military police. Now he’s on the sandy porch in Miami, and he’s got a gun aimed at his sister.

His mom comes outside with blood drained from her face, as she stares at the thing that was once her daughter. It comes to her, sniffing for a meal and clacks its teeth in front of her, tongue swollen and hanging limply out her mouth. She makes a lunge for it, and she makes it, teeth biting deep into the throat of his mother as she takes an aim for its head, and shoots the monster right fucking proper.

Two seconds ago, his sister was there. Now, she’s gone.

His mother informs him that there’s information being spread on TV, as strong as she can be in the face of horror. Some would say she is aloof; Lance thinks she is the strongest woman alive. 

When he returns to watch the news, total anarchy has become of Cuba. Political uprising in anger towards how the virus is being dealt with as it spreads deep into Cuba, many with bites stepping forward only to have a pistol lodged between their teeth. The military police runs off of bleeding power, sinking their teeth into premade holes and treating the civilians horribly. The carnage ends when a bomb is thrown into an elementary school, but by then it is too late to “snap out of it”. The city is a wreck. Rescue attempts are blocked, and he can only watch as Cuba is torn apart from the inside out.

A man boasts about how many he’s already killed. It makes him sick to his stomach. Hunk whimpers, and Lance presses a hand against his shoulder.

Not hours later, his mom is on the brink of turning when Varadero is overrun by zombie tourists. Not hours later, he and Hunk are rushed into the last working truck, as he watches his family, and the Garretts be torn apart by the infected monster fucks. Lance pukes on the dashboard and sobs into his fists, as his mother urges the two to run away as far as they can. 

He stares into the rearview mirror as a trio of biters rip their nails into her neck, blood spurting high in the sky and Lance winces, and cries. Hunk cries with him, and they are both blubbering messes in the car unable to get a sentence out, and it hurts. Lance then would think it’s the worst of the worst, that this is all he will suffer.

He is so dangerously, utterly wrong.

* * *

 

**CHAPTER 18**  
for: **timothotdrake**  
NOTE: POV is unspecified, Hunk/Pidge/Lance POV leaning

“Welcome back to the land of the living, buddy!” Hunk cheers, and Lance offers a lazy grin from his position on the couch. Pidge is tucked between his legs, clinging on his calf and flipping through a tiny notepad, Keith is quite literally sitting on top of him like a lap dog, and Hunk has only recently entered the room. Desperate to join the cuddle pile, he hops over the couch with his bag, exchanging a hug with his best buddy and ruffling Keith’s, Pidge’s hair.

Hunk smiles briefly as he rests against the couch, letting the stress of the day deflate from him. They converse quietly about their day, about how clingy Keith is and how much people seem to be amazed, enamored by Lance's very presence. Post-zombification makes people pretty wary of you, but admirable? Lance thinks he should be on some kind of zombie watch list, or something. Pidge shifts near his leg.

“What’s in the bag?” Pidge inquires, moving from her book to run her hands on Lance’s weird arm scars. She peers in the plastic bag, shuffling through it. It’s mainly toiletries, half of which she recognizes are meant for her. Then she sees it– the holy grail, the life and love of them all and she squeals with delight. “Holy shit!”

“What?” Lance asks, bewildered. He glances in the bag, too, and a wild grin crawls on his lips. Keith matches him like a mirror image, and they all cheer with absolute delight at the beautiful sight before them.

They’re getting excited over Kool-Aid, Ritz crackers, and a jar of peanut butter, which says a lot about their luxuries. The Kool-Aid is the most exciting part, and Hunk scampers off to get some water bottles as the rest dive into the crackers and scoop up the peanut butter, drowning the poor Ritz. Hunk comes back fast, and presses a faux-aghast hand against his chest and gasps. “You’re eating without me!”

“Blasphemous,” Keith resounds around a mouthful of sticky peanut butter, “now bring those bottles. I call blue.”

“Fuck you,” Pidge spits, slapping Keith’s hand with an angry, furrowed brow. “I wanted blue!”

“I called dibs.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“What if I want blue?” Lance mutters, and the two shoot such looks of pure evil that can only get Lance’s blood pumping. Oh man, this was gonna get so competitive, so quick. “I literally just came back from the brink of death. I like the blue flavor, so, please?”

“Just sayin’, I’m the one who bought it,” Hunk states, and that alone sets off a fuse among them all. They’re literally teenagers sitting in a living room, screaming at each other about who gets the blue Kool-Aid. They’re so invested, that they don’t notice Matt Holt in his shitheaded glory, shaking a suspiciously blue water bottle and taking an appreciative sip. Their heads snap to his direction when he lets out a pleased sigh, and brows furrow.

“Blue is the best,” he states, and the four of them lunge, murder in their agenda just as Shiro comes through the door. He sighs, tired as Matt screeches in protest to the three of them attacking his shrimpish, 5’7 body and calls for help.

Shiro keeps walking. Matt “dies” soon after and none of them want to revive him, so they go to the dining hall.

“That’s fucked up!” Matt wails after them, as they head out to go get dinner. “That’s fucked up and I’m gonna have sex on every single one of your beds!”

He didn’t, ‘cause Shiro thought that was too mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if u did not like the whole "tech" plotpoint or whatever but i promise this is important in the future like legit VERY important.
> 
> requests r v v short bc i am very tired and am ready to finish this. but they were nice refreshers/cute little tidbits, so yay!
> 
> but omg....holy shit? one more?????????????  
> i will write my sappy letter when i actually finish, but to hype you guys up, i have another fic in writing! it's a single dad lance au ;)


	20. forevermore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you. please refer to end notes for my gratitude.

“Pidge,” Keith mumbles hoarsely, mouth dry as he fumbles around the dark of the basement. They were hanging out in the basement last night, playing a game of ping-pong in the duplex with their shitty table. He vaguely remembers the two of them getting into a fake fight, wrassling each other on the floor until Pidge knocked her head against Hunk’s spice cabinet and passed out on his hip. She wasn’t there anymore, so he assumes that she’s just gone off to get some breakfast. With a yawn and a strange sense of deja-vu, Keith hauls himself up from the wall and stretches himself out, grimacing at the way his hair clung to his sweaty neck. He really needed a shower.

Keith ascends up the steps and fishes his phone from his back pocket, checking for any texts from Lance. There’s a quick “good morning babe, so ready to see you tonight,” sent at about , but otherwise it’s void of any messages. Probably because he only uses his phone to text people, but that’s besides the point. 

A quick look at the phone’s date and time tell him it’s 11 AM, on October 25th, 2039. He probably should’ve woken up sooner, but at his age it’s a miracle he’s able to sit against hard drywall without fucking up his back, so nobody can say shit about it.

Hunk sits at the kitchen table in all his bearded, burly glory, sipping at a cup of coffee– two sugars and one creamer, Keith remembers– and waggles his fingers in Keith’s direction. “Hey,” he yawns, scratching at the tattoo of a mountain on his bicep; something he picked up when he’d gone honeymooning with Shay in London. “Pidge headed out with Terry a while ago. They’re gonna pick up some stuff from the Olkari. Lance comes home today, right?”

Keith nods, vaguely waving his hand in the direction of the shower. “Yeah, I’m pretty excited. I’m gonna shower, if she comes back tell her she owes me for not letting her get shitfaced before a job.”

“Will do. Man, we haven’t seen him in a month– that’s gotta be killing you,” Keith shrugs, adamant in keeping his facade, but it doesn’t really work on Hunk. “Okay, big guy. Shay’s coming back soon, and we’re gonna head out too– gotta pick up some things for Cherry. Think you can hold down the fort?”

“Yup. Tell her I say hi, I haven’t seen her in a week.” He hasn’t, and that’s like _really_ upsetting to him. He loves that little rascal.

“She’s like, four, Keith. I don’t think she understands the concept of time past when she needs to go to bed.”

“She’s your baby,” Keith reiterates, and folds his arms over his chest with a pout. “Pity me and let me handle your daughter more often. You know Lance and I can’t have kids.”

“With the amount of children you too seem to pick up off the side of the street, I’m surprised you haven’t figured out a way to, yet.” 

Keith furrows his brow, throwing his middle finger up at the Samoan. Hunk lets out a hearty laugh and Keith heads up the stairs, that statement sticking with him a little _too_ much. Okay, yeah, him and Lance have taken care of two other children they found during the clean-up phase, so _what?_ Those kids are both adults now, and he has serious baby fever. Keith puts it on his mental checklist to go find some kids soon because he likes the aspect of childcare and the difficulties with it– it keeps him grounded, and it gives him another reason to keep moving.

Keith hops in the bathroom with a sigh, kicking off his dirty boots and the filthy sweatpants and hoodie off his form and takes a glance at the mirror. He’s lucky; whatever genetics he inherited from his parents have worked wonders, because he’s definitely grown into his features at the good ol’ age of thirty-nine. His face is a little less sharp edges of teenage years and a little stronger, a little more defined. He looks good; he’s got to believe that by now, the amount of times Lance slaps his butt and calls him hot-stuff before heading off somewhere diplomatic. They’re good, though.

His hair is kind of out of control, though. His bangs haven’t necessarily left, they’ve just grown out and often need to be pinned back– he’s thinking about cutting them back to that comfortable eyebrow length. He likes his hair long, though, and Lance _really_ likes it long. It reaches past his shoulders by now, and he’s found that he’s gotten decently good with hair. Rigorous braiding sessions with Lance taught him a thing or two, and he’s able to do some pretty cool stuff with it when he has the time. It’s thinning a little from stress, but no biggie– he’s got enough to be able to lose some. He’s considering just making the chop, though; maybe he’ll ask Pidge about it.

Keith enters the shower, scrubbing his face clean and getting any gross smells off of him before making a count of his scars just to check if he did anything scar-worthy last night. There’s a nick on his arm, but aside from that he’s clean. Besides, he doubts it would be that visible with the amount of injuries he’s sustained over the years. Nothing, at this point, could top the jagged slash across his chest from an unfortunate and near-death encounter with a chainsaw. But details, details. He has other fish to fry right now, one of which is not scars. 

He gets dressed, squeezing himself into a pair of jeans– note to self, go trade for more or rob a JCPenneys, his legs are too big for these jeans– and a warm, probably too expensive if their economy didn’t rely on trade Dri-fit, long sleeve black shirt. It’s Lance’s favorite, because, quote, “It makes your back look all sexy and gets Lance Jr. fired up, you _beast,”_ and he’s coming home, so the shirt is necessary. He can barely survive a week when Lance isn’t around– a month is too long for his husband to be gone. 

Back to that trade thing, though. As far as he knows, their economy is too shit and they’ve created a very traditional, colonialist-era system of commerce to keep them all afloat. Certain camps make or build certain materials, and most outside sources– phones, laptops, etcetera– are imported via donations from outside countries. The system has worked very well for them, and it’s made them all rather self-reliant in this time. See, he says “most” because Pidge has decided to create a sort of technology ring– bring your shitty, dead iPhone 6s and she’ll repurpose it to work even better than the latest iPhone whatever-the-fuck. Keith doesn’t understand technology, and like many of the other campers, doesn’t need it. She loves tech shit, though, so whatever keeps her hands moving. So no, they don’t have a form of currency anymore; it’s sort of molded this very friendly, open market where everyone benefits– camp Arus, Keith’s longtime home is the center of it all. Allura, in all her firm hand and safety for all has created a safe haven for campers of Voltron. No one is starving, struggling, and trade is merely a way to upgrade your basics. Most countries find this system very strange and un-American, whatever that means anymore. As far as he knows, America now is associated with “Voltron,” “trade,” and “real, true acceptance for all.” Capitalism has no room in a country that still faces a threat of an outbreak every second of their lives.

Those are less likely though. With the decision made to simply save anyone who has been recently bit, rather than waste resources meant for a cure on bodies long dead it’s given a little less likelihood for cities to go dark again. They got a lot of criticism for that; but the decision stands. They cannot help any long dead. It’s also near impossible, trying to save the thousands of people who’ve been infected with maybe a handful of those capable of actually reanimating someone. So they kill any long infected, and they save the recent infected. It sucks, sometimes, but it works.

It’s about 1 PM when he finishes his morning routine. Keith walks out of the house and casts his gaze over Arus; a few troops had landed in from the UK about half a year ago, and they’ve just been shitting on their whole system ever since. They’re all young dickheads who don’t take the gravity of situations seriously, and Keith’s been forced to abide to what they say, per request of Allura. No need for unnecessary quarrel, she said. Keith thinks he’d like to punch their fucking teeth in.

Speaking of their douchiness, here’s a prime example. The newest troop, arrived last month, seems to have not figured out that Jeanine’s sort of his “daughter.” Yes, she’s pretty and brash in a way that’s appealing to boys, and that’s attracted more than a few knuckleheads kissing at her feet. Most other troops have learned to stay away from him and his family, but these two haven’t picked up on Keith’s glaring or brooding aura around them. He’s already a little on edge, because this could be the second time Lance was forced to reschedule his return, so that’s what sets him off. The troop are all facing her, trying to sweet talk her down and she’s visibly uncomfortable. Also, she’s, like, a lesbian? So that’s definitely making the situation worse, and one of them starts trying to pull her off her dining table and to the training hall and Keith’s just about had it. So with the strength of a lion and the swiftness of a cheetah, Keith picks the dagger from his back pocket and without much thought, sails it through the air and into the wood grain of the table. It lodges itself in between the asshole’s fingers, and he squeals in a very non-macho way and earns a few snickers from passing campers.

Keith stomps right on over, yanking the blade out with fluidity like water and points it at their necks. “Here’s the thing,” he bites, “hands off of her, you fucking dirty, entitled asshole, before I break your fucking legs–“

“Calm down, dude!” he cries, and stifles a laugh past his fist. “We get it, you’ve got dibs! Jeez!”

Oh. _Oh fuck no._ “I’m her fucking dad, you shithead. I’ve got dibs on being her fuckin’ parent, you useless dicknozzle.”

“...Dicknozzle?”

“I need you to do me a favor and keep you and your little friends far, far away from my family. As far as you can. Think your little shrimp brain can handle that? Y’know, instead do your fuckin’ job because you won’t let the rest of us do it for you. Thanks, please go before I think about cutting out your tongue and adding it to my collection.”

The troop ring-leader scoffs, obviously very offended and Keith is oh so remorseful (not) and turns on his heel with a harrumph, friends following close behind. Keith sighs, running a hand through his hair and turning to Jeanine with a soft smile. “You alright? Sorry, I got a little fired up.”

“I’m good, thanks for helping me out. The troops seriously hate you, though– one day they’ll ‘accidentally’ throw you into a pit of fire,” Jeanine quips, and Keith knocks his knuckles against her forehead. “Lance comes home today, right? I miss him– it’ll be good to have him back so you can stop being so grumpy and start being soft Keith again.”

“I’m revoking your car privileges for that one,” he grumbles, and snatches the bowl from her hands, popping a handful of pomegranate seeds in his mouth. Agriculture is a thing now, and they’ve got all the fruits Keith’s little heart desires. 

“I’m almost thirty. You have no control over me anymore,” she jokes, and lets him have the bowl. “I’m gonna go meet up with Jackie, though. See you in a bit.” She presses a kiss to his head and he grunts, waving her goodbye before finishing off the rest of the pomegranate seeds. Lance said he’d come home pretty earlier, and by his luck, Lance reassures him he’s gotten off the flight home already, and was coming in pretty soon. He’s excited, sends a photo of himself eating pomegranate seeds and gets an immediate “the braid is back and I might actually get a hard-on,” Keith calls him gross, life is good.

Mostly good. When things are goin’ good, they usually turn out bad for Keith. Them getting caught by Lotor, Lance getting bit, five years ago, bandit ambush after Shay announced she was pregnant, last month when a member of the troops nearly shot her after her second pregnancy announcement. It’s one thing after the other. It’s not surprising to him when the oldest troop there, who’s been hanging around since they came in for yet another unnecessary check in, sits at his table. Their faces are a cross between annoyance and absolute glee, and Keith feels a pit in his stomach form. He’s never associated looks like that ever since Lotor, so he grips the dagger in his hand and raises a brow.

“Orders from the court,” the leader resounds, who Keith has named Patchy Beard. His mouth curls into a cruel grin, and he cracks his knuckles in his hand. “I guess they’ve heard your dumb whining about self-reliance even all the way in Europe! We mentioned your little immunity thing, and say they’d love you to start helping us out. We’ve been putting off handling some herd out in Ohio– so how about you do us a favor, and handle it? You can do it yourself, I bet. Thanks, Mr. Alvarez!”

Keith stops. His heart rattles in his chest and he finds his breath uneven, shaking. He can vaguely hear Shiro, who asks what the hell is going on because Keith’s expression is absolutely livid, and his hands start moving on their own. He is on edge, because for half a year he’s been unable to go on missions and help people, like he always does even all this time later because they have three whole fucking countries to help, and he doesn’t have Lance and Lance is his impulse control. Keith leaps forward, pinning the dagger to the table and lunges for his neck, table jolting with movement as he tosses Patchy Beard off the bench, hands squeezing tight around his neck. The commotion comes quick, and he goes off of pure mechanical technique because his brain is so jumbled right now. People come at him, he throws punches, kicks them in the head, and it’s going well because these troops are so incapable in comparison to the twenty two years of constant training and fighting. He feels a familiar force stop his leg, and realizes it’s Shiro throwing the other guys off of him and sitting Keith on the bench. He’s the current camp leader when Lance and Allura are off on the diplomatic missions, but he’s not sure why they were gone. Or he doesn’t remember.

“I take my eyes off of you for one second,” Shiro huffs, running a hand through the short locks of hair, “and you pick a fight. Dammit, Keith– and you, I need your troop in my tent. _Now.”_

Everyone’s a little intimidated by Shiro, and the troop scampers off with bloodied noses and their tails between their legs as Shiro addresses his brother. Keith kinda zones off, and instead thinks about how gross and old Shiro is. He’s nearing fifty, but he doesn’t look a day over twenty. It’s unfair, and Keith mentally wills he get super wrinkly before Keith dies. Both him and Matt look insanely good for their ages; Matt kept his hair around the same length, because he’s weird and messy enough to pull it off. Now he just looks a little older, and he’s almost certain Pidge will be the same. Y'know, mostly look the same; Matt's sporting a prosthetic on his left leg, having lost it in an incident with a planted mine and now he looks like a real fuckin' cool pirate.

Shiro, on the other hand, has kept most of his limbs, so that's neat. After a decision to shave his head a few years back and let it grow the way it wanted to, he’s kept it in a neat, George Clooney inspired cut, albeit a tad longer on the top. It looks good on him, more refined and sophisticated than the tuft he kept in the front. He sports a five o’clock shadow, and he’s a fan favorite among campers. Keith finds it _revolting._

Keith shrugs, rubbing at the forming bruise on his jawline. He’s totally prepared for a Shiro lecture, when the savior from above, the higher power that may exist, a blessing on earth bestowed itself upon Keith. There’s commotion at the gate and rumbling of an engine, and a distant call of “Lance!” breaks his focus on Shiro. See, no need for a lecture because he’ll be a good boy now, because his baby is back and he really needs that. He’s gotta make it there before Lance’s ever growing fanbase shows up and drags him off, and from the looks of it, they’ve got their eyes on the prize. He darts a look at Shiro, who sighs and nods, wandering to his tent to go get a smooch or two from Matt. Keith grins, and bolts off the bench and to the gate.

Ohh, there he is. He’s talking to Pidge and Terry, who have become some kind of life partners or something like that and they bonded well, and just goof off together, and it’s good for the both of them. Also, Pidge is totally sporting this super cute undercut at the nape of her neck, and Terry definitely grew into his face, and they look just as good as they feel. Enough about them, though, because he has his prize, his trophy right in front of him.

Lance is thriving under the sun– and attention– skin warm and rich and tan, standing tall in his 6’3 glory. He had that growth spurt Keith feared, and now pretty much towers over Keith’s measly 5’11 self, which isn’t even that short, Lance is just fucking tall as shit. He’s absolutely gorgeous, though. There’s a scar through his brow, and one just on the bridge of his nose, and those flecks of shrapnel scars starring his cheek, and a curved scar at the edge of his hairline. He is unbelievably good looking, eyes dark and navy with long lashes and a galaxy of freckles adorning his face. His hair has definitely shaped the sharp angles of his face, swept off his forehead and towards the left, wisping with a bit of length. His sides are faded, tapering off in a neat shave and he’s currently got no facial hair. Sometimes Lance grows out his stubble a little, and Keith has learned it’s a sure-fire way to get his engines revved. His hips a-movin’. In short, it makes him insanely horny and an assured way to get him to fool around all day, and those are always nice. 

Lance is also rather muscular, and they’re sort of perfect complements of each other. While Keith is abs and insanely thick, defined legs, Lance is arms. Lance is arms, and oh god, that back. His back muscle is unreal, more of that perfect triangle/Dorito™ form than Shiro could ever be. His arms are strong from his constant handle of heavy weaponry, but he’s just hot all around. Literally the hottest thing Keith has ever seen.

Lance’s lips curl into a lazy grin when he catches Keith staring, and makes a move to hug him when Keith surges forward, jumping right into his arms and pressing his lips hard against Lance’s mouth. He’s gotta do some koala climbing to get to Lance’s mouth, but it is very much worth it the way Lance’s tongue swipes over his lower lip and Keith melts.

Pidge gags, again, and Keith pulls away, offering a glare before slipping off of Lance and keeping his arms wrapped tight around his waist. He sort of tries to move, but Keith is an unrelenting baby and refuses to let go of him anytime soon. So with a sigh, he bids the other two goodbye as Allura reunites with her girlfriend, one of the camp leaders and another diplomat for international relations, and drags Keith off to his room.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Lance asks. He has been with Keith long enough to know when he’s mad, or upset and by the way he’s scratching at his neck, something is definitely wrong. Lance leads them to their side of the duplex. See, they and Hunk share a duplex building, while Pidge lives next door with her brother and Shiro, and Terry. She’s over at their house a lot, because she swears up and down that Matt will have sex literally anywhere, including the duplex lobby, which is horrible information to know and Keith lets her come over as often as she wants. 

“Yeah, just. Can we sit?”

“Okey dokey. Missed you, a lot. I love you.”

“Love you too, and I missed you. Seriously– I feel like I didn’t say that enough when we talked on the phone,” Keith reiterates, and his nails dig a little deeper in his neck. They reach their bedroom, and Lance sits him down in front of him, taking a look at his nails with a look of concern.

"Alright, babe," Lance sighs, opening his arms wide and slapping his chest. "Come on in. I'll take your burden."

Keith grimaces, looking down at bloodied fingernails, scratches on his neck hissing pain at him. Lance is waiting patiently, and Keith takes another lasting look before throwing himself in. 

"This sucks," Keith mumbles in the crook of his neck, tapping Lance's back before his husband nods. Keith lets his fingernails dig deep in his back, and Lance pulls at the hairs at his neck. "I can't handle this domestic life shit, Lance. Like, I get it— the troops don't want us all up in their business, I fucking _get it,_ but we fuckin' built all of this! I want to help, I wanna stop sitting on my ass waiting for an attack when it's so easy to go out and do it myself! And now they want me to single-handedly take out a herd because I can't turn, a-after all the times they denied any assistance? That— that's fucked up! That's a death wish!"

Lance nods into his shoulder, and presses a brief kiss to his ear. It’s comforting, but it’s not exactly what he needs and Keith rests his head against Lance’s shoulder. The Cuban hums, thrumming his digits between Keith’s shoulder blades, and shrugs. “Well, at least you won’t have to deal with ‘em anymore.”

Keith looks up, pulling away with a skeptical brow and Lance grins. “What do you mean?” Keith asks, a wary look on his face as the smile on Lance’s face grows.

“That’s what that mission was about, and why it took so long. We’re gettin’ rid of the troops, for good. It took a lot of time, and seriously a lot on Allura’s part, but we did it! So you can go yell at ‘em all you want, and whoa, you’re unbuttoning my pants, okay we’re going that? Alright, shit, I’m not complain _iiiiiiiing…”_

Yup.

– 

They have a house party, the next weekend. 

It’s nice and fun, and mostly lighthearted. They’ve got drinks and are celebrating the last of the troops leaving them for good, and it’s a great time. They keep the alcohol on the low, because Shay is kind of, sort of pregnant and Coran’s near seventy years old– again, completely elusive on the age chart and looks literally the same as he did twenty years prior, save for the crow’s feet. So it’s the core group: Keith, Lance, Hunk, Pidge, Shiro, Matt, Allura, Coran, Shay. Terry’s passed out after a particularly exhausting day of agricultural shit, and Pidge decides for the group it’s best to let him rest.

He’s around his second glass of wine when he takes a good look at them all. They’ve all aged. They are worn out, and tired of years of fighting for everyone, and tired of being the sort of stage figures for Voltron. They are the best, but that makes it the worst, for them. Always being called out on missions, never being able to mesh and bond outside of combat, and moments like these are rare. While the need for fighters has drastically decreased, it doesn’t mean that they’re all good and safe and dandy. It just means they focus less on the others and more on this core group, and the Blade.

Oh man, those guys were doing amazingly. Next level on the combat scale, didn’t take shit from anyone, and Kolivan was beginning to prepare to pass the baton to the next generation. Maybe it was a ways off, but learning the ins and outs of their relations was no laughing matter. That’s why Allura had begun to do the same, to chose a candidate for them to continue on the Voltron legacy. 

It’s a little strange, in all honestly. To think, they’ve got roughly fifty years left of their lifespan, and who knows whether or not they’d make it til then. He’s less afraid of death, now, he thinks. Keith believes that maybe not now, that he’s ready to let go but sometime in the future, he’ll be able to. It won’t hurt as bad.

Keith is snapped out of his stupor by Shiro, who gives him a worried glance and Keith waves it off, but he’s already grabbed the attention of the others by then. They all flow together rather easy, woven together a basket of reds and blues and greens and yellows and purples and every color in between, and feelings throw up out of them like it’s a therapy session. They all suffer from PTSD, most of them have tics that keep them grounded, younger generations, tourists aren’t used to the level of alertness. Nothing gets past them, but it is all kept up inside of them, and sometimes it is good to let it go. He wants to talk about– all this, how long they’ve lasted, and he looks down at Lance’s head in his lap. Really looks at him, soft smile pulling the edges of his eyes and Keith kisses the tip of his nose, breathes in deep, and talks.

“If there’s one thing I never thought I’d do,” he begins, threading his fingers through the locks of hair on Lance’s head. “is that I never thought I’d live through an apocalypse. No one ever– ever really thinks that, you know? I also never thought that we’d bounce back from it as well as we did, nor did...god, I never figured I’d get married at nineteen years old with a big idiot for a husband, but that’s a reality.”

“Hey!” Lance cries, and Keith pinches the bridge of his nose, and continues.

“And it’s like, okay, this isn’t so bad. Sometimes I’ll go over the pros and cons of this life, and I just– y’know, it’s scary to think how easily you get used to this lifestyle. Running and starving and nearly dying and watching people die, and burning your friend’s corpses, and I realize– this fuckin’ _sucks._ There is nothing fun about this, and we’re all getting up there in age, and it makes me wonder how we can live outside of this. I don’t think any of us are able to go back to that domestic life anymore. We’d drive ourselves insane trying to conform to societal norms, and like– I think a lot about how I would’ve died early on had it not been for you guys. I would’ve gotten Pidge killed, or somethin’ and I wouldn’t have gotten married, and that’s...that’s just so _real_ to me. It’s not farfetched, one wrong move and that all could’ve gone down. Thinking about it more, I just think sometimes that if I got bit out there, I would’ve asked Pidge to end it for me. I don’t think I could let myself turn.

“I like a lot of the memories we’ve built. It sort of brings this human aspect to everything we’ve been through, and like, yeah. Some of those memories suck, like getting bit or shot or blown up, but it’s still who we are. We’re fighters, we’re survivors, we thrive off of a thrill that gives us something we lost before we ever got here. Like, and memories– Pidge, remember around when all this shit started, and we had the fuckin’ tampon fiasco?”

“Ah, the fabled Terrible Tampon incident of. Fuck, I dunno what month– continue,” Pidge snickers.

“We, we couldn’t find any menstrual stuff for Pidge when her monthly came around, and it was just horrific. We tried to use toilet paper but Pidge insisted on not using it, because we would be wasting resources, and one day I just thought– fuck it, why not make one myself. So I, I found a shirt and laid a bunch of wet wipes inside of it, and wrapped it to be shaped like a pad, and that. That didn’t work. We kept looking and looking for the entire day, and Pidge was just about crying because her cramps were starting to get real bad, and we waited in our truck for a long while, and something tells me to open the glove box. There’s a whole box of tampons inside, just waiting to be used, and Pidge gets out the car, and starts yelling. Thumping her head against the hood, screaming her lungs out, and by then she’s so sick of everything, she starts crying, and we make it somewhere to spend the night. God, I just– and, and Hunk! The Doughnut Disaster of December 2020!”

“Oh man,” Hunk chuckles, head hanging in his hands. “Who could _forget?”_

“We, we tried making doughnuts once we got some chickens and eggs ‘nd stuff, and. We blew up the oven. Okay, not really, it just got too hot and I used the wrong pan, and the glass exploded on the stove top, and that fuckin’ sucked, and we had glass on our wrists but it was just so fucking funny we couldn’t be angry about it! Shiro and I had a knife throwing contest and accidentally lodged a knife in Shay’s brother’s hand, Matt and I tried to judo throw a twelve year old completely on accident while practicing some moves, Shay and I got the flu at the same time and suffered together, Coran and I– our fuckin’ sewing adventures! And, and Allura– jesus, all the time I spent with you finding a cure and how you helped me when I wanted to take care of more people, and. My god, Lance. Jesus, I– here, three favorite memories off the top of my head. Anything relating to the sex shop, the time we went joyriding in a nice ass Jeep and busted the tire and tried to fix it ourselves, our first kiss. We have so many more, and– and, fuck, why am I crying? I’m making myself so upset over this shit, but fuck! Seriously, just, fuck, I really love you guys, okay?”

The group runs forth, swooping him into a gross, sobbing, snot-filled group hug and he sees that Terry has joined them, and awkward pats his head and they’re all just crying about feelings and how much they love each other, and how much it’s going to hurt to let go, and how much everything sucks and they live and struggle and survive. They have survived, they are survivors and will continue to strive as long as they can because giving up is not an option. They have a burden to carry, and whether or not it is helpful in the long run does not matter. If they can save everyone, they will.

That night, Keith sifts his fingers through Lance’s hair, wrapped up in each other and letting the alcohol swim around in their stomachs and their brains, warm and relaxing in a time of high strung emotion. Keith really doesn’t mind too much, at least not when he’s a tad bit inebriated. Lance rests his hand on the nape of his neck, playing with the strands slipping out of the lazy bun and presses his lips in the dip of his jaw. It is entirely calming, reassuring, loving and caring and every bit of Lance that he could ever get. 

He thinks about how much they’ve grown. He was certain he hated him at first, too loud and annoying and reckless Lance. As the spiral unravelled and he rode the steady waves of Lance, those things meant nothing as he grew to really experience Lance. Experiencing Lance was unreal; from the way they melded together fast, and kissed and cried and got bit and suffered, but most importantly. He loved. They loved, they loved hard and relentlessly and lived with and in each other, a yin and yang and a beach to an ocean and a moth to a flame, they were inseparable. Keith has loved him tirelessly, and Lance gave him tenfold what he’d ever desired, and they simply rowed their boat of life down the sea of experiences and lived. Lived, loved, and soon they will die. The inevitable end.

When they go, he wishes they will go to the stars. Become the constellations of the sky, beaming down shining bright on one another and offering a warmth and safety so needed for times like these. He will keep them all safe in his world among space, and wishes Lance will follow him. Lance will follow him everywhere, he thinks, and the swirling thoughts of stars and love and life coincide and melt into something beautiful. A pinwheel of them all, soft hum in the wind of the turning pinwheel, and one day, those breezes will carry them off anywhere. Carry them safe, waiting to mesh with the world and truly weave together among the stars. 

They will continue forth together, hand in hand as they face their greatest challenges and their best times, until death do them part. He is aware of the time ahead, what lies ahead and can rest assured that he will be okay.

Keith tucks himself close in, and Lance mumbles against his ear, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired, I think.”

“If you say so.”

“...hey, Lance?”

“Mm?”

“I love you, Lance.”

“I love you too, Keith.”

Fingers weave together and foreheads meet, soft lights of the mood flecking ports of light on their faces and they share a kiss, sweet in the wee hours of the night. They feel at home, here. They are safe and warm and relaxed, and they kiss and fight and make up and move on and go through passages of life, but they are at home. 

Home is each other. Home is Lance, and Keith is home. 

They share another kiss, and let the waves of slumber rock them to sleep into the days that await.

–

On September 15th, 2058, Coran passes away of old age in his sleep. He is peaceful, he has fulfilled his destiny and dances among the universe, reunited with his love awaiting beyond. 

On June 23rd, 2062, Allura passes the baton to the daughters of Shay and Hunk when she is injured in a brief ambush. She does not make it, but she joins her father, Coran beyond what they can see. Keith suspects she is finally happy.

Terry is killed in this same ambush, during his attempt to smuggle out other campers to safety. He is caught, but he dies fighting, and he is remembered a hero. Pidge cries over his tombstone, and tells him she will meet him soon.

On January 8th, 2065, Shiro and Matt are severely injured in a car accident on the way back from a rekindling with the Blade of Marmora. They pass away prematurely in hospital, minutes after one another with clinging hands and bleeding hearts, and it hurts. Keith wishes them well, together, forward.

On August 15th, 2075, Hunk passes away, calmly with the creeping evil of cancer. He is adamant in his decision to refuse treatment, citing old age and spends his final moments with his family, kissing Shay goodbye as he rejoins his family on the other side. He waits for Shay, and she follows.

On October 2nd, 2079, Shay asks that she be taken off life support after a nasty fall left her paralyzed from the waist down, along with many other pre-existing health conditions that slowly weakened her from the inside out. She meets Hunk with open arms, and they float on the clouds above, smiles on their faces and rings shining on their fingers.

On April 25th 2081, Pidge passes away due to a respiratory issue. A particular attack overnight does her in, and she is gone by morning. Keith wraps her in flowers and brushes her hair back, and tries to keep himself from falling apart. She is the last of their friends, and it is him and Lance as the sole survivors of the core group. Keith hopes she has joined the others, and does not feel so lonely anymore.

On the morning of September 18th, 2089, at about 11 AM, Lance cites an ache in his chest to Keith in their living room. He insisted on walking today, even if he’s always hunched over and struggles to move, and needs a cane and aches with every step, he does it. He links arms with Keith the whole way, smile on his face. Keith thinks, even all these years after, when Keith's brushing the edges of ninety years of life, and Lance has hit his ninety-first year. They are old and weary, watching their friends go one by one, and now they are here. Telling stories of their pasts and loving every inch of each other even as time is not so kind. Lance grips his arm, hanging on Keith as the left side of his body hurts. His arm, specifically. Shoulders. Chest.

They never make it to the dining table. Lance starts to puff out breaths, and rubs at his chest to alleviate any pressures, and sweats and sits at a bench because he is so dizzy, and looks at Keith. Really, really looks at him and grabs his face and says, flat out, “I think I’m dying,” and starts to ache more, and more, and as doctors surround him in an attempt to save him, whispers out “I love you.” On September 18th, 2089, Lance dies from a heart attack at 11:34 AM with a final I love you to his beloved. He waits for Keith beyond, and Keith counts down the days. 

On March 8th, 2091, Keith is sitting on the soft, blue comforters of his and Lance’s bedroom. He does not sit here much else for sleeping, because it is hard to handle being without him. In his palms, a worn wide-shot polaroid of him and Lance. It’s around their mid-thirties, and they are smiling and happy and have bandages on their face, but they are content. Scrabbled writing on the caption reads, “turn over” with a winky face and when he turned it over, the super-glued note paper sits on the back. It’s a note from Lance.

_Hey, baby! Hope you read this when times get the hardest, and I can’t be there to help you. I’ll love you always, because you are my shining star, my cowboy, the ninja to my sharpshooter and you mean everything to me. You put up with me more than anyone else can, and I don’t know how you can do it, but you do. You do, and I love you every second this heart beats, and I will love you beyond that._

Keith has a bit of a six sense. Keith knows when something is going to happen, and right now, he feels himself letting go. He wants to close his eyes, but not until he finishes. His head hurts. He lies down.

_I hope you find your way to me, all the time. I cannot live without you because you’ve wedged yourself into my life. You are my family, and raising children that weren’t ours with you has been amazing, and getting married in a sex shop was amazing, and honeymooning in a rickety old truck and going cross-country zombie hunting was amazing, and visiting Spain together was breathtaking, you are breathtaking. You are mine, and sometimes I get so happy about that I feel like I’ll burst._

His face feels numb, and he pushes himself to read the last of it. Then he will sleep.

_I love you, shining star, to hell and back._

_Lance_

Keith closes his eyes.

On March 8th, 2091, Keith Alvarez-Kogane is found on his bed, cause of death determined as a hemorrhagic stroke. In his persons is his wallet, a photo album, and a picture of his husband and him smiling in their younger years. He is buried with these things, and the world continues.

– 

Keith finds himself on a beach. He is young, spry and ready for action, and just beyond he can see them. Awaiting patiently for his arrival, hands waving excitedly to beckon him over, and his sharpshooter stands at the front. They are all here, and they welcome him back home.

He sprints into Lance’s arms, arms wrapped around his neck and peppers kisses on his face and holds him and cries and revels in a beyond. Warmth surrounds him. He has loved, and lost and lived and died and survived and thrived, and he is here. 

Keith shares a kiss with him. He hugs them all. He looks at Lance.

“You told me,” Keith says, and grips his hand.

“What’d I say?”

“You said you’d love me, to hell and back.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, and squeezes tight. Presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Me, too.”

Hearts are lined as one, and they meet. They love, to hell and back, and forevermore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck. jesus, i- seriously, wow. i have no idea where to begin. first of all, thank you so much? every single one of you who read this and kept up with it, seriously, THANK YOU. from the bottom of my heart, this means the world to me that people would read this mess and enjoy it and cry and love and live with me. to hell and back is my absolute baby, and i love it so much.
> 
> i started this back in april with the intent of making this no more than 50k. obviously, i went above and beyond that- but at the time, that seemed so far away, so unattainable that i never fathomed reaching past that. yet as the story developed, and love grew for it that i felt an obligation to make this the best damn thing i possibly could. it is not perfect, it is not revolutionary, but it is incredible for my sense of self, and as a writer to be able to write something so incredibly wonderful.
> 
> when i started this, i planned on making it SIGNIFICANTLY different. it was going to be completely roadtrip apocalypse based, shiro and matt were supposed to be found dead, keith would die of hypothermia before they ever make it to canada. the description is literally a foreshadowing; getting pidge to safety did not entail survival. but halfway through the first draft of the second chapter, i realized i didn't want that. i didn't want to leave it upsetting. i wanted to make something that ends bittersweet, and i made this. it is more than i could ever imagine.
> 
> seriously, i have to thank all of you so, so much for the support. i could not have written this had i not been motivated by all of you, so seriously, pat on the backs to you guys. a lot of the things that went into this were because of what fans wanted, and i poured my heart into it. thab has taken so much of my time, but i could not have been happier with what i have made. there's inconsistencies at some point, continuity issues, but i do not care. you guys like this, and i love this, and i cannot thank you enough for all the love, support, everything i have gained from this. it's incredible. it's exhilarating.
> 
> if you like my writing a lot, i have a fic in the works! [hearts aligned!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12003831) it's a single father lance/klance au, and it's a lot nicer and sweeter than this, so i have a little bit of leeway with fluffy stuff. if you're into that, go check it out! i hope it can live up to the writing in this.
> 
> again, thank you so, so much. i cannot be more grateful for what thab has given me as a person, and how much its helped me grow. gaining friends (hi emily!) and being able to interact with you guys is incredible. i take the time to reply to every comment no matter how insignificant because i love hearing feedback. sometimes i don't reply to replies of replies, and that's probably because im a stickler for comments ending in even numbers, rip. but i digress. the point is, i seriously love you guys.
> 
> thank you for sticking this out with me. i hope it was worth it. if you have the time, recommend this to some of your friends! i love seeing what people think of my writing.
> 
> once more, you can find me at [hearts aligned.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12003831) or, alternatively, my tumblr acct linked below. 
> 
> finally. thank you.
> 
> the curtains close on "to hell and back."

**Author's Note:**

> oh man. its been a while since ive written any fanfiction so pls be nice to me....i hope you enjoy if you read this! updates might come a little slow because chapters tend to be long so bear with me! also i have no beta so sorry if this is horribly written ajfawjnrgkwajr
> 
> ps. my tumblr is @gggenos in case you have any questions about the fic!


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